THE 

BROKEN 

ROAD 


A.  E.  W. 
MASON 


//.' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST 

OF 

ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


THE   BROKEN   ROAD 


THE 
BROKEN   ROAD 


BY 

A.    E.    W.    MASON 

AUTHOR  OP  "  FOUR  FEATHERS,"    *'  THE  TRUANTS,"    "  RUNNING  WATER,"    ETC. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK     : :     : :     : :     1908 


COPTBIGHT,    1906,    1907,   BY 

A.  E.  W.  MASON 


Published  November,  1907 


GIFT 


Am  dn 
MAIM 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAFTEB 

I.  The  Breaking  of  the  Road     ...  1 

II.  Inside  the  Fort 8 

III.  Linforth's  Death 21 

IV.  LuFFE  Looks  Forward 31 

V.  A  Magazine  Article 44 

VI.  A  Long  Walk 58 

VII.  In  the  Dauphine 63 

VIII.  A  String  of  Pearls 79 

IX.  LuFFE  is  Remembered 89 

X.  An  Unanswered  Question  ....  102 

XL  At  the  Gate  of  Lahore      .     .     .     .  112 

XII.  On  the  Polo-Ground 127 

XIII.  The  Invidious  Bar 133 

XIV.  In  the  Courtyard 145 

XV.  A  Question  Answered 157 

XVI.  Shere  Ali  Meets  an  Old  Friend  .     .  163 

XVII.  News  from  Mecca 182 

XVIII.  Sybil  Linforth's  Loyalty    ....  198 

XIX.  A  Gift  INIisunderstood 207 


V 


037 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTKR  PAGE 

XX.  The  Soldier  and  the  Jew  ....  230 

XXI.  Shere  Ali  is  Claimed  by  Chiltistan  .  242 

XXII.  The  Casting  of  the  Die      ....  248 

XXIII.  Shere  Ali's  Pilgrimage 262 

XXIV.  News  from  Ajmere 282 

XXV.     In  the  Rose  Garden 289 

XXVI.  The  Breaking  of  the  Pitcher    .     .  301 

XXVII.  An  Arrested  Confession      .     .     .     .  318 

XXVIII.     The  Thief 330 

XXIX.  Mrs.  Oliver  Rides  through  Pesha- 

wuR 339 

XXX.     The  Needed  Implement 350 

XXXI.  An  Old  Tomb  and  a  New  Shrine  .     .  360 

XXXII.  Surprises  for  Captain  Phillips   .     .  374 

XXXIII.  In  the  Residency 382 

XXXIV.  One  of  the  Little  Wars     ...»  391 
XXXV.    A  Letter  from  Violet 399 

XXXVI.     ''The  Little  Less  "      ....  407 


vi 


THE    BROKEN   ROAD 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  BREAKING   OF  THE  ROAD 

It  was  the  Road  which  caused  the  trouble.  It  usu- 
ally is  the  road.  That  and  a  reigning  prince  who  was 
declared  by  his  uncle  secretly  to  have  sold  his  country 
to  the  British,  and  a  half-crazed  priest  from  out  be- 
yond the  borders  of  Afghanistan,  who  sat  on  a  slab  of 
stone  by  the  river-bank  and  preached  a  djehad.  But 
above  all  it  was  the  road — Linforth's  road.  It  came 
winding  down  from  the  passes,  over  slopes  of  shale;  it 
was  built  with  wooden  galleries  along  the  precipitous 
sides  of  cliffs;  it  snaked  treacherously  further  and  fur- 
ther across  the  rich  valley  of  Chiltistan  towards  the 
Hindu  Kush,  until  the  people  of  that  valley  could  en- 
dure it  no  longer. 

Then  suddenly  from  Peshawur  the  wires  began  to 
flash  their  quiet  and  ominous  messages.  The  road  had 
been  cut  behind  Linforth  and  his  coolies.  No  news 
had  come  from  him.  No  supplies  could  reach  him. 
Luffe,  who  was  in  the  country  to  the  east  of  Chiltistan, 
had  been  informed.     He  had  gathered  together  what 

1 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

troops  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  and  had  already  started 
over  the  eastern  passes  to  Linforth's  relief.  But  it  was 
believed  that  the  whole  province  of  Chiltistan  had  risen. 
Moreover  it  was  winter-time  and  the  passes  were  deep 
in  snow.  The  news  was  telegraphed  to  England.  Com- 
fortable gentlemen  read  it  in  their  first-class  carriages 
as  they  travelled  to  the  City  and  murmured  to  each 
other  commonplaces  about  the  price  of  empire.  And 
in  a  house  at  the  foot  of  the  Sussex  Downs  Linforth*s 
young  wife  leaned  over  the  cot  of  her  child  with  the 
tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  and  thought  of  the 
road  with  no  less  horror  than  the  people  of  Chiltistan. 
Meanwhile  the  great  men  in  Calcutta  began  to  mob- 
ilise a  field  force  at  Nowshera,  and  all  official 
India  said  uneasily,  "Thank  Heaven,  Luffe's  on  the 
spot." 

Charles  Luffe  had  long  since  abandoned  the  army 
for  the  political  service,  and,  indeed,  he  was  fast  ap- 
proaching the  time-limit  of  his  career.  He  was  a  man 
of  breadth  and  height,  but  rather  heavy  and  dull  of 
feature,  with  a  worn  face  and  a  bald  forehead.  He  had 
made  enemies,  and  still  made  them,  for  he  had  not  the 
art  of  suffering  fools  gladly;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
made  no  friends.  He  had  no  sense  of  humour  and  no 
general  information.  He  was,  therefore,  of  no  assist- 
ance at  a  dinner-party,  but  when  there  was  trouble  upon 
the  Frontier,  or  beyond  it,  he  was  usually  found  to  be 
the  chief  agent  in  the  settlement. 

2 


THE   BREAKING  OF  THE  ROAD 

Luffe  alone  had  foreseen  and  ghen  warning  of  the 
danger.  Even  Linforth,  who  was  actually  superin- 
tending the  making  of  the  road,  had  been  kept  in  igno- 
rance. At  times,  indeed,  some  spokesman  from  among 
the  merchants  of  Kohara,  the  city  of  Chiltistan  where 
year  by  year  the  caravans  from  Central  Asia  met  the 
caravans  from  Central  India,  would  come  to  his  tent 
and  expostulate. 

"We  are  better  without  the  road,  your  Excellency. 
Will  you  kindly  stop  it!"  the  merchant  would  say;  and 
JLinforth  would  then  proceed  to  demonstrate  how  ex- 
tremely valuable  to  the  people  of  Chiltistan  a  better 
road  would  be: 

"Kohara  is  already  a  great  mart.  In  your  bazaars 
at  summer-time  you  see  traders  from  Turkestan  and 
Tibet  and  Siberia,  mingling  with  the  Hindoo  merchants 
from  Delhi  and  Lahore.  The  road  will  bring  you  still 
more  trade." 

The  spokesman  went  back  to  the  broad  street  of  Ko- 
hara seemingly  well  content,  and  inch  by  inch  the  road 
crept  nearer  to  the  capital. 

But  Luffe  was  better  acquainted  with  the  Chiltis,  a 
soft-spoken  race  of  men,  with  musical,  smooth  voices 
and  polite  and  pretty  ways.  But  treachery  was  a  point 
of  honour  with  them  and  cold-blooded  cruelty  a  habit. 
There  was  one  particular  story  which  Luffe  was  ac- 
customed to  tell  as  illustrative  of  the  Chilti  character. 

"There  was  a  young  man  who  lived  with  his  mother 

3 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

in  a  little  hamlet  close  to  Kohara.  His  mother  continu- 
ally urged  him  to  marry,  but  for  a  long  while  he  would 
not.  He  did  not  wish  to  marry.  Finally,  however,  he 
fell  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl,  made  her  his  wife,  and 
brought  her  home,  to  his  mother's  delight.  But  the 
mother's  delight  lasted  for  just  five  days.  She  began 
to  complain,  she  began  to  quarrel;  the  young  wife 
replied,  and  the  din  of  their  voices  greatly  distressed 
the  young  man,  besides  making  him  an  object  of  ridicule 
to  his  neighbours.  One  evening,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  both 
women  said  they  would  stand  it  no  longer.  They  ran 
out  of  the  house  and  up  the  hillside,  but  as  there  was 
only  one  path  they  ran  away  together,  quarrelling  as 
they  went.  Then  the  young  Chilti  rose,  followed  them, 
caught  them  up,  tied  them  in  turn  hand  and  foot,  laid 
them  side  by  side  on  a  slab  of  stone,  and  quietly  cut 
their  throats. 

"'Women  talk  too  much,'  he  said,  as  he  came  back 
to  a  house  unfamiliarly  quiet.  *  One  had  really  to  put 
a  stop  to  it.'" 

Knowing  this  and  many  similar  stories,  Luffe  had 
been  for  some  while  on  the  alert.  Whispers  reached 
him  of  dangerous  talk  in  the  bazaars  of  Kohara,  Pe- 
shawur,  and  even  of  Benares  in  India  proper.  He 
heard  of  the  growing  power  of  the  old  Mullah  by  the 
river-bank.  He  was  aware  of  the  accusations  against 
the  ruling  Khan.  He  knew  that  after  night  had  fallen 
Wafadar  Nazim,  the  Khan's  uncle,  a  restless,  ambitious, 

4 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  ROAD 

disloyal  man,  crept  down  to  the  river-bank  and  held  con- 
verse with  the  priest.  Thus  he  was  ready  so  far  as  he 
could  be  ready. 

The  news  that  the  road  was  broken  was  flashed  to 
him  from  the  nearest  telegraph  station,  and  within 
twenty-four  hours  he  led  out  a  small  force  from  his 
Agency — a  battalion  of  Sikhs,  a  couple  of  companies  of 
Gurkhas,  two  guns  of  a  mountain  battery,  and  a  troop 
of  Irregular  levies — and  disappeared  over  the  pass,  now 
deep  in  snow. 

"Would  he  be  in  time?" 

Not  only  in  India  was  the  question  asked.  It  was 
asked  in  England,  too,  in  the  clubs  of  Pall  Mall,  but  no- 
where with  so  passionate  an  outcry  as  in  the  house  at 
the  foot  of  the  Sussex  Downs. 

To  Sybil  Linforth  these  days  were  a  time  of  intoler- 
able suspense.  The  horror  of  the  Road  was  upon  her. 
She  dreamed  of  it  when  she  slept,  so  that  she  came  to 
dread  sleep,  and  tried,  as  long  as  she  might,  to  keep  her 
heavy  eyelids  from  closing  over  her  eyes.  The  nights 
to  her  were  terrible.  Now  it  was  she,  with  her  child  in 
her  arms,  who  walked  for  ever  and  ever  along  that  road, 
toiling  through  snow  or  over  shale  and  finding  no  rest 
anywhere.  Now  it  was  her  boy  alone,  who  wandered 
along  one  of  the  wooden  galleries  high  up  above  the 
river  torrent,  until  a  plank  broke  and  he  fell  through 
with  a  piteous  scream.  Now  it  was  her  husband,  who 
could  go  neither  forward  nor  backward,  since  in  front 

5 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

and  behind  a  chasm  gaped.  But  most  often  it  was  a 
man — a  young  EngHshman,  who  pursued  a  young  In- 
dian along  that  road  into  the  mists.  Somehow,  perhaps 
because  it  was  inexphcable,  perhaps  because  its  details 
were  so  clear,  this  dream  terrified  her  more  than  all  the 
rest.  She  could  tell  the  very  dress  of  the  Indian  who 
fled — a  young  man — ^young  as  his  pursuer.  A  thick 
sheepskin  coat  swung  aside  as  he  ran  and  gave  her  a 
glimpse  of  gay  silk;  soft  leather  boots  protected  his  feet; 
and  upon  his  face  there  was  a  look  of  fury  and  w  ild  fear. 
She  never  woke  from  this  dream  but  her  heart  was  beat- 
ing wildly.  For  a  few  moments  after  waking  peace 
would  descend  upon  her. 

**It  is  a  dream — all  a  dream,"  she  would  whisper  to 
herself  with  contentment,  and  then  the  truth  would 
break  upon  her  dissociated  from  the  dream.  Often  she 
rose  from  her  bed  and,  kneeling  beside  the  boy's  cot, 
prayed  with  a  passionate  heart  that  the  curse  of  the 
Road — that  road  predicted  by  a  Linforth  years  ago — 
might  overpass  this  generation. 

Meanwhile  rumours  came — rumours  of  disaster. 
Finally  a  messenger  broke  through  and  brought  sure 
tidings.  Luffe  had  marched  quickly,  had  come  within 
thirty  miles  of  Kohara  before  he  was  stopped.  In  a 
strong  fort  at  a  bend  of  the  river  the  young  Khan  with 
his  wife  and  a  few  adherents  had  taken  refuge.  Luffe 
joined  the  Khan,  sought  to  push  through  to  Kohara  and 
rescue  Linforth,  but  was  driven  back.     He  and  his 

6 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  ROAD 

troops  and  the  Khan  were  now  closely  besieged  by 
Wafadar  Nazim. 

The  work  of  mobilisation  was  pressed  on;  a  great 
force  was  gathered  at  Nowshera;  Brigadier  Appleton 
was  appointed  to  command  it. 

"Luffe  will  hold  out,"  said  official  India,  trying  to 
be  cheerful. 

Perhaps  the  only  man  who  distrusted  Luffe's  ability 
to  hold  out  was  Brigadier  Appleton,  who  had  personal 
reasons  for  his  views.  Brigadier  Appleton  was  no  fool, 
and  yet  Luffe  had  not  suffered  him  gladly.  All  the 
more,  therefore,  did  he  hurry  on  the  preparations.  The 
force  marched  out  on  the  new  road  to  Chiltistan.  But 
meanwhile  the  weeks  were  passing,  and  up  beyond  the 
snow-encumbered  hills  the  beleaguered  troops  stood 
cheerfully  at  bay  behind  the  thick  fort-walls. 


CHAPTER  II 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 


The  six  English  officers  made  it  a  practice,  so  far  as 
they  could,  to  dine  together;  and  during  the  third  week 
of  the  siege  the  conversation  happened  one  evening  to 
take  a  particular  turn.  Ever  afterwards,  during  this 
one  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  it  swerved  regularly  into 
the  same  channel.  The  restaurants  of  London  were 
energetically  discussed,  and  their  merits  urged  by  each 
particular  partisan  with  an  enthusiasm  which  would 
have  delighted  a  shareholder.  Where  you  got  the  best 
dinner,  where  the  prettiest  women  were  to  be  seen, 
whether  a  band  was  a  drawback  or  an  advantage — 
not  a  point  was  omitted,  although  every  point  had  been 
debated  yesterday  or  the  day  before.  To-night  the 
grave  question  of  the  proper  number  for  a  supper  party 
was  opened  by  Major  Dewes  of  the  5th  Gurkha  Regi- 
ment. 

"Two,"  said  the  Political  Officer  promptly,  and  he 
chuckled  under  his  grey  moustache.  "  I  remember  the 
last  time  I  was  in  London  I  took  out  to  supper — none 
of  the  coryphees  you  boys  are  so  proud  of  being  seen 
about  with,  but " — and,  pausing  impressively,  he  named 
a  reigning  lady  of  the  light-opera  stage. 

8 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

"You  did!"  exclaimed  a  subaltern. 

"I  did,"  he  replied  complacently. 

"What  did  you  talk  about?"  asked  Major  Dewes, 
and  the  Political  Officer  suddenly  grew  serious. 

"I  was  very  interested,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  got 
knowledge  which  it  was  good  for  me  to  have.  I  saw 
something  which  it  was  well  for  me  to  see.  I  wished — 
I  wish  now — that  some  of  the  rulers  and  the  politicians 
could  have  seen  what  I  saw  that  night." 

A  brief  silence  followed  upon  his  words,  and  during 
that  silence  certain  sounds  became  audible — the  beating 
of  tom-toms  and  the  cries  of  men.  The  dinner-table 
was  set  in  the  verandah  of  an  inner  courtyard  open  to 
the  sky,  and  the  sounds  descended  into  that  well  quite 
distinctly,  but  faintly,  as  if  they  were  made  at  a  dis- 
tance in  the  dark,  open  country.  The  six  men  seated 
about  the  table  paid  no  heed  to  those  sounds;  they  had 
had  them  in  their  ears  too  long.  And  five  of  the  six 
were  occupied  in  wondering  what  in  the  world  Sir 
Charles  Luffe,  K.C.S.I.,  could  have  learnt  of  value  to 
him  at  a  solitary  supper  party  with  a  lady  of  comic 
opera.  For  it  was  evident  that  he  had  spoken  in  deadly 
earnest. 

Captain  Lynes  of  the  Sikhs  broke  the  silence: 

"What's  this?"  he  asked,  as  an  orderly  offered  to 
him  a  dish. 

"Let  us  not  inquire  too  closely,"  said  the  Political 
Officer.     "This  is  the  fourth  week  of  the  siege." 

9 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

The  rice-fields  of  the  broad  and  fertile  valley  were 
trampled  down  and  built  upon  with  sangars.  The 
siege  had  cut  its  scars  upon  the  fort's  rough  walls  of 
mud  and  projecting  beams.  But  nowhere  were  its 
marks  more  visible  than  upon  the  faces  of  the  English- 
men in  the  verandah  of  that  courtyard. 

Dissimilar  as  they  were  in  age  and  feature,  sleepless 
nights  and  the  unrelieved  tension  had  given  to  their 
drawn  faces  almost  a  family  likeness.  They  were  men 
tired  out,  but  as  yet  unaware  of  their  exhaustion,  so 
bright  a  flame  burnt  within  each  one  of  them.  Some- 
where amongst  the  snow-passes  on  the  north-east  a 
relieving  force  would  surely  be  encamped  that  night, 
a  day's  march  nearer  than  it  was  yesterday.  Some- 
where amongst  the  snow-passes  in  the  south  a  second 
force  would  be  surely  advancing  from  Nowshera,  prob- 
ably short  of  rations,  certainly  short  of  baggage,  that 
it  might  march  the  lighter.  When  one  of  those  two 
forces  deployed  across  the  valley  and  the  gates  of  the 
fort  were  again  thrown  open  to  the  air  the  weeks  of 
endurance  would  exact  their  toll.  But  that  time  was 
not  yet  come.  Meanwhile  the  six  men  held  on  cheerily, 
inspiring  the  garrison  with  their  own  confidence,  w^hile 
day  after  day  a  province  in  arms  flung  itself  in  vain 
against  their  blood-stained  walls.  Luffe,  indeed,  the 
Political  Officer,  fought  with  disease  as  well  as  with  the 
insurgents  of  Chiltistan;  and  though  he  remained  the 
master-mind  of  the  defence,  the  Doctor  never  passed 

10 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

him  without  an  anxious  glance.  For  there  were  the 
signs  of  death  upon  his  face. 

"  The  fourth  week ! "  said  Lynes.  "  Is  it,  by  George  ? 
Well,  the  siege  won't  last  much  longer  now.  The 
Sirkar  don't  leave  its  servants  in  the  lurch.  That's 
what  these  hill-tribes  never  seem  to  understand.  How 
is  Travers?"  he  asked  of  the  Doctor. 

Travers,  a  subaltern  of  the  North  Surrey  Light  In- 
fantry, had  been  shot  through  the  thigh  in  the  covered 
waterway  to  the  river  that  morning. 

"  He's  going  on  all  right,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  Trav- 
ers had  bad  luck.  It  must  have  been  a  stray  bullet 
which  slipped  through  that  chink  in  the  stones.  For 
he  could  not  have  been  seen " 

As  he  spoke  a  cry  rang  clearly  out.  All  six  men 
looked  upwards  through  the  open  roof  to  the  clear 
dark  sky,  where  the  stars  shone  frostily  bright. 

"  What  was  that  ? "  asked  one  of  the  six. 

**Hush,"  said  Luffe,  and  for  a  moment  they  all  lis- 
tened in  silence,  with  expectant  faces  and  their  bodies 
alert  to  spring  from  their  chairs.  Then  the  cry  was 
heard  again.  It  was  a  wail  more  than  a  cry,  and  it 
sounded  strangely  solitary,  strangely  sad,  as  it  floated 
through  the  still  air.  There  was  the  East  in  that 
cry  trembling  out  of  the  infinite  darkness  above  their 
heads.  But  the  six  men  relaxed  their  limbs.  They 
had  expected  the  loud  note  of  the  Pathan  war-cry 
to  swell  sonorously,  and   with  intervals   shorter   and 

11 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

shorter  until  it  became  one  menacing  and  continuous 
roar. 

"It  is  someone  close  under  the  walls,"  said  Luffe, 
and  as  he  ended  a  Sikh  orderly  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  passage  into  the  courtyard,  and,  advancing 
to  the  table,  saluted. 

"Sahib,  there  is  a  man  who  claims  that  he  comes 
with  a  message  from  Wafadar  Nazim." 

"Tell  him  that  we  receive  no  messages  at  night,  as 
Wafadar  Nazim  knows  well.  Let  him  come  in  the 
morning  and  he  shall  be  admitted.  Tell  him  that  if 
he  does  not  go  back  at  once  the  sentinels  will  fire." 
And  Luffe  nodded  to  one  of  the  younger  officers.  "Do 
you  see  to  it,  Haslewood." 

Haslewood  rose  and  went  out  from  the  courtyard 
with  the  orderly.  He  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  say- 
ing that  the  man  had  returned  to  Wafadar  Nazim's 
camp.  The  six  men  resumed  their  meal,  and  just  as 
they  ended  it  a  Pathan  glided  in  white  flowing  garments 
into  the  courtyard  and  bowed  low. 

"Huzoor,"  he  said,  "His  Highness  the  Khan  sends 
you  greeting.  God  has  been  very  good  to  him.  A 
son  has  been  born  to  him  this  day,  and  he  sends  you 
this  present,  knowing  that  you  will  value  it  more  than 
all  that  he  has";  and  carefully  unfolding  a  napkin, 
he  laid  with  reverence  upon  the  table  a  little  red  card- 
board box.  The  mere  look  of  the  box  told  the  six  men 
what  the  present  was  even  before  Luffe  lifted  the  lid. 

12 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

It  was  a  box  of  fifty  gold-tipped  cigarettes,  and  ap- 
plause greeted  their  appearance. 

"If  he  could  only  have  a  son  every  day,"  said  Lynes, 
and  in  the  laugh  which  followed  upon  the  words 
Luffe  alone  did  not  join.  He  leaned  his  forehead 
upon  his  hand  and  sat  in  a  moody  silence.  Then 
he  turned  towards  the  servant  and  bade  him  thank 
his  master. 

"  I  will  come  myself  to  offer  our  congratulations  after 
dinner  if  his  Highness  will  receive  me,"  said  Luffe. 

The  box  of  cigarettes  went  round  the  table.  Each 
man  took  one,  lighted  it,  and  inhaled  the  smoke  silently 
and  very  slowly.  The  garrison  had  run  out  of  tobacco 
a  week  before.  Now  it  had  come  to  them  welcome  as 
a  gift  from  Heaven.  The  moment  was  one  of  which 
the  perfect  enjoyment  was  not  to  be  marred  by  any 
speech.  Only  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  or  a  deep  sigh  of 
pleasure  was  now  and  then  to  be  heard,  as  the  smoke 
curled  upwards  from  the  little  paper  sticks.  Each  man 
competed  with  his  neighbour  in  the  slowness  of  his 
respiration,  each  man  wanted  to  be  the  last  to  lay  down 
his  cigarette  and  go  about  his  work.  And  then  the 
Doctor  said  in  a  whisper  to  Major  Dewes: 

"That's  bad.     Look!" 

Luffe,  a  mighty  smoker  in  his  days  of  health,  had  let 
his  cigarette  go  out,  had  laid  it  half-consumed  upon  the 
edge  of  his  plate.  But  it  seemed  that  ill-health  was 
not  all  to  blame.     He  had  the  look  of  one  who  had 

13 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

forgotten  his  company.  He  was  withdrawn  amongst 
his  own  speculations,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  beyond 
that  smoke-laden  room  in  a  fort  amongst  the  Himalaya 
mountains  into  future  years  dim  with  peril  and 
trouble. 

"There  is  no  moon,"  he  said  at  length.  "We  can 
get  some  exercise  to-night";  and  he  rose  from  the 
table  and  ascended  a  little  staircase  on  to  the  flat  roof 
of  the  fort.  Major  Dewes  and  the  three  other  officers 
got  up  and  went  about  their  business.  Dr.  Bodley^ 
the  surgeon,  alone  remained  seated.  He  waited  until 
the  tramp  of  his  companions'  feet  had  died  away,  and 
then  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  briarwood  pipe,  which 
he  polished  lovingly.  He  walked  round  the  table  and, 
collecting  the  ends  of  the  cigarettes,  pressed  them  into 
the  bowl  of  the  pipe. 

"Thank  Heavens  I  am  not  an  executive  officer,"  he 
said,  as  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  settled  himself  again 
comfortably  in  his  chair.  It  should  be  mentioned, 
perhaps,  that  he  not  only  doctored  and  operated  on  the 
sick  and  wounded,  but  he  kept  the  stores,  and  when 
any  fighting  was  to  be  done,  took  a  rifle  and  filled  any 
place  which  might  be  vacant  in  the  firing-line. 

"There  are  now  forty-four  cigarettes,"  he  reflected. 
"At  six  a  day  they  will  last  a  week.  In  a  week  some- 
thing will  have  happened.  Either  the  relieving  force 
will  be  here,  or — ^yes,  decidedly  something  will  have 
happened."     And  as  he  blew  the  smoke  out  from  be- 

14 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

tween  his  lips  he  added  solemnly:  "If  not  to  us,  to 
the  Political  Officer." 

Meanwhile  Luffe  paced  the  roof  of  the  fort  in  the 
darkness.  The  fort  was  built  in  the  bend  of  a  swift, 
wide  river,  and  so  far  as  three  sides  were  concerned 
was  securely  placed.  For  on  three  the  low  precipitous 
cliffs  overhung  the  tumbling  water.  On  the  fourth, 
however,  the  fertile  plain  of  the  valley  stretched  open 
and  flat  up  to  the  very  gates. 

In  front  of  the  forts  a  line  of  sangars  extended,  the 
position  of  each  being  marked  even  now  by  a  glare  of 
light  above  it,  which  struck  up  from  the  fire  which  the 
insurgents  had  lit  behind  the  walls  of  stone.  And  from 
one  and  another  of  the  sangars  the  monotonous  beat 
of  a  tom-tom  came  to  Luffe's  ears. 

Luffe  walked  up  and  down  for  a  time  upon  the  roof. 
There  was  a  new  sangar  to-night,  close  to  the  North 
Tower,  which  had  not  existed  yesterday.  Moreover, 
the  almond  trees  in  the  garden  just  outside  the  western 
wall  were  in  blossom,  and  the  leaves  upon  the  branches 
were  as  a  screen,  where  only  the  bare  trunks  showed  a 
fortnighjt  ago. 

But  with  these  matters  Luffe  was  not  at  this  moment 
concerned.  They  helped  the  enemy,  they  made  the 
defence  more  arduous,  but  they  were  trivial  in  his 
thoughts.  Indeed,  the  siege  itself  was  to  him  an  un- 
important thing.  Even  if  the  fortress  fell,  even  if 
every   man   within   perished   by   the   sword — why,   as 

15 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Lynes  had  said,  the  Sirkar  does  not  forget  its  servants. 
The  relieving  force  might  march  in  too  late,  but  it 
would  march  in.  Men  would  die,  a  few  families  in 
England  would  wear  mourning,  the  Government  would 
lose  a  handful  of  faithful  servants.  England  would 
thrill  with  pride  and  anger,  and  the  rebellion  would  end 
as  rebellions  always  ended. 

Luffe  was  troubled  for  quite  another  cause.  He 
went  down  from  the  roof,  walked  by  courtyard  and 
winding  passage  to  the  quarters  of  the  Khan.  A 
white-robed  servant  waited  for  him  at  the  bottom  of  a 
broad  staircase  in  a  room  given  up  to  lumber.  A 
broken  bicycle  caught  Luffe's  eye.  On  the  ledge  of  a 
window  stood  a  photographic  camera.  Luffe  mounted 
the  stairs  and  was  ushered  into  the  Khan's  presence. 
He  bowed  with  deference  and  congratulated  the  Khan 
upon  the  birth  of  his  heir. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  the  Khan — "  ever  since 
my  son  was  born  I  have  been  thinking.  I  have  been  a 
good  friend  to  the  English.  I  am  their  friend  and  ser- 
vant. News  has  come  to  me  of  their  cities  and  col- 
leges. I  will  send  my  son  to  England,  that  he  may 
learn  your  wisdom,  and  so  return  to  rule  over  his 
kingdom.  Much  good  will  come  of  it."  Luffe  had 
expected  the  words.  The  young  Khan  had  a  passion 
for  things  English.  The  bicycle  and  the  camera  were 
signs  of  it.  Unwise  men  had  applauded  his  enlighten- 
ment.    Unwise  at  all  events  in  Luffe's  opinion.     It 

16 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

was,  indeed,  greatly  because  of  his  enlightenment  that 
he  and  a  handful  of  English  officers  and  troops  were 
beleaguered  in  the  fortress. 

"  He  shall  go  to  Eton  and  to  Oxford,  and  much  good 
for  my  people  will  come  of  it,"  said  the  Khan.  Luffe 
listened  gravely  and  politely;  but  he  was  thinking  of 
an  evening  when  he  had  taken  out  to  supper  a  reigning 
queen  of  comic  opera.  The  recollection  of  that  even- 
ing remained  with  him  when  he  ascended  once  more 
to  the  roof  of  the  fort  and  saw  the  light  of  the  fires 
above  the  sangars.  A  voice  spoke  at  his  elbow.  "  There 
is  a  new  sangar  being  built  in  the  garden.  We  can 
hear  them  at  work,"  said  Dewes. 

Luffe  walked  cautiously  along  the  roof  to  the  western 
end.  Quite  clearly  they  could  hear  the  spades  at  work, 
very  near  to  the  wall,  amongst  the  almond  and  the 
mulberry  trees. 

"Get  a  fireball,"  said  Luffe  in  a  whisper,  "and  send 
up  a  dozen  Sikhs,'' 

On  the  parapet  of  the  roof  a  rough  palisade  of  planks 
had  been  erected  to  protect  the  defenders  from  the 
riflemen  in  the  valley  and  across  the  river.  Behind  this 
palisade  the  Sikhs  crept  silently  to  their  positions.  A 
ball  made  of  pinewood  chips  and  straw,  packed  into  a 
covering  of  canvas,  was  brought  on  to  the  roof  and 
saturated  with  kerosene  oil.  "Are  you  ready?"  said 
Luffe;  "then  now!"  Upon  the  word  the  fireball  was 
lit  and  thrown  far  out.     It  circled  through  the  air, 

17 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

dropped,  and  lay  blazing  upon  the  ground.  By  its 
light  under  the  branches  of  the  garden  trees  could  be 
seen  the  Pathans  building  a  stone  sangar,  within  thirty 
yards  of  the  fort's  walls. 

"Fire!"  cried  Luffe.     "Choose  your  men  and  fire." 

All  at  once  the  silence  of  the  night  was  torn  by  the 
rattle  of  musketry,  and  afar  off  the  tom-toms  beat  yet 
more  loudly. 

Luffe  looked  on  with  every  faculty  alert.  He  saw 
with  a  smile  that  the  Doctor  had  joined  them  and  lay 
behind  a  plank,  firing  rapidly  and  with  a  most  accurate 
aim.  But  at  the  back  of  his  mind  all  the  while  that  he 
gave  his  orders  was  still  the  thought,  "  All  this  is  nothing. 
The  one  fateful  thing  is  the  birth  of  a  son  to  the  Khan 
of  Chiltistan."  The  little  engagement  lasted  for  about 
half  an  hour.  The  insurgents  then  drew  back  from  the 
garden,  leaving  their  dead  upon  the  field.  The  rattle 
of  the  musketry  ceased  altogether.  Behind  the  parapet 
one  Sikh  had  been  badly  wounded  by  a  bullet  in  the 
thigh.     Already  the  Doctor  was  attending  to  his  hurts. 

"It  is  a  small  thing,  Huzoor,"  said  the  wounded  sol- 
dier, looking  upwards  to  Luffe,  who  stood  above  him; 
"  a  very  small  thing,"  but  even  as  he  spoke  pain  cut  the 
words  short. 

"Yes,  a  small  thing";  Luffe  did  not  speak  the 
words,  but  he  thought  them.  He  turned  away  and 
walked  back  again  across  the  roof.  The  new  sangar 
would  not  be  built  that  night.     But  it  was  a  small 

18 


INSIDE  THE  FORT 

thing  compared  with  all  that  lay  hidden  in  the 
future. 

As  he  paced  that  side  of  the  fort  which  faced  the  plain 
there  rose  through  the  darkness,  almost  beneath  his 
feet,  once  more  the  cry  which  had  reached  his  ears  while 
he  sat  at  dinner  in  the  courtyard. 

He  heard  a  few  paces  from  him  the  sharp  order  to  re- 
tire given  by  a  sentinel.  But  the  voice  rose  again,  claim- 
ing admission  to  the  fort,  and  this  time  a  name  was 
uttered  urgently,  an  English  name. 

"  T)on't  fire,"  cried  Luffe  to  the  sentinel,  and  he  leaned 
over  the  wall. 

"You  come  from  Wafadar  Nazim,  and  alone?" 

"Huzoor,  my  life  be  on  it." 

"With  news  of  Sahib  Linforth?" 

"Yes,  news  which  his  Highness  Wafadar  Nazim 
thinks  it  good  for  you  to  know";  and  the  voice  in  the 
darkness  rose  to  insolence. 

Luffe  strained  his  eyes  downwards.  He  could  see 
nothing.  He  listened,  but  he  could  hear  no  whispering 
voices.  He  hesitated.  He  was  very  anxious  to  hear 
news  of  Linforth. 

"I  will  let  you  in,"  he  cried;  "but  if  there  be  more 
than  one  the  lives  of  all  shall  be  the  price." 

He  went  down  into  the  fort.  Under  his  orders 
Captain  Lynes  drew  up  inside  the  gate  a  strong  guard 
of  Sikhs  with  their  rifles  loaded  and  bayonets  fixed. 
A  few  lanterns  threw  a  dim  light  upon  the  scene,  glisten- 

19 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

ing  here  and  there  upon  the  polish  of  an  accoutrement 
or  a  rifle-barrel. 

"Present,"  whispered  Lynes,  and  the  rifles  were 
raised  to  the  shoulder,  with  every  muzzle  pointing  tow- 
ards the  gate. 

Then  Lynes  himself  went  forward,  removed  the  bars, 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  The  gate  swung  open 
noiselessly  a  little  way,  and  a  tall  man,  clad  in  white 
flowing  robes,  with  a  deeply  pock-marked  face  and  a 
hooked  nose,  walked  majestically  in.  He  stood  quite 
still  while  the  gate  was  barred  again  behind  him, 
and  looked  calmly  about  him  with  inquisitive  bright 
eyes. 

"Will  you  follow  me?"  said  Luffe,  and  he  led  the 
way  through  the  rabbit-warren  of  narrow  alleys  into 
the  centre  of  the  fort. 


20 


CHAPTER  III 


linforth's  death 


LufFe  had  taken  a  large  bare  low-roofed  room  sup- 
ported upon  pillars  for  his  council-chamber.  Thither 
he  conducted  his  visitor.  Camp  chairs  were  placed  for 
himself  and  Major  Dewes  and  Captain  Lynes.  Cush- 
ions were  placed  upon  the  ground  for  his  visitor.  Luffe 
took  his  seat  in  the  middle,  with  Dewes  upon  his  right 
and  Lynes  upon  his  left.  Dewes  expected  him  at  once 
to  press  for  information  as  to  Linforth.  But  Luffe 
knew  very  well  that  certain  time  must  first  be  wasted 
in  ceremonious  preliminaries.  The  news  would  only 
be  spoken  after  a  time  and  in  a  roundabout  fashion. 

"If  we  receive  you  without  the  distinction  which  is 
no  doubt  your  due/'  said  Luffe  politely,  "you  must  re- 
member that  I  make  it  a  rule  not  to  welcome  visitors  at 
night." 

The  visitor  smiled  and  bowed. 

*'It  is  a  great  grief  to  his  Highness  Wafadar  Nazim 
that  you  put  so  little  faith  in  him,"  replied  the  Chilti. 
"See  how  he  trusts  you!  He  sends  me,  his  Diwan,  his 
Minister  of  Finance,  in  the  night  time  to  come  up  to 
your  walls  and  into  your  fort,  so  great  is  his  desire  to 
learn  that  the  Colonel  Sahib  is  well." 

21 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

LufFe  in  his  turn  bowed  with  a  smile  of  gratitude. 
It  was  not  the  time  to  point  out  that  his  Highness 
Wafadar  Nazim  was  hardly  taking  the  course  which  a 
genuine  solicitude  for  the  Colonel  Sahib's  health  would 
recommend. 

"  His  Highness  has  but  one  desire  in  his  heart.  He  de- 
sires peace — peace  so  that  this  country  may  prosper,  and 
peace  because  of  his  great  love  for  the  Colonel  Sahib." 

Again  Luffe  bowed. 

"But  to  all  his  letters  the  Colonel  Sahib  returns  the 
same  answer,  and  truly  his  Highness  is  at  a  loss  what 
to  do  in  order  that  he  may  ensure  the  safety  of  the 
Colonel  Sahib  and  his  followers,"  the  Diwan  continued 
pensively.  "I  will  not  repeat  what  has  been  already 
said,"  and  at  once  he  began  at  interminable  length  to 
contradict  his  words.  He  repeated  the  proposals  of 
surrender  made  by  Wafadar  Nazim  from  beginning  to 
end.  The  Colonel  Sahib  was  to  march  out  of  the  fort 
with  his  troops,  and  his  Highness  would  himself  conduct 
him  into  British  territory. 

"If  the  Colonel  Sahib  dreads  the  censure  of  his  own 
Government,  his  Highness  will  take  all  the  responsibility 
for  the  Colonel  Sahib's  departure.  But  no  blame  will 
fall  upon  the  Colonel  Sahib.  For  the  British  Govern- 
ment, with  whom  Wafadar  Nazim  has  always  desired 
to  live  in  amity,  desires  peace  too,  as  it  has  always  said. 
It  is  the  British  Government  which  has  broken  its 
treaties." 

22 


LINFORTH'S  DEATH 

"Not  so/'  replied  Luffe.  "The  road  was  under- 
taken with  the  consent  of  the  Khan  of  Chiltistan,  who 
is  the  ruler  of  this  country,  and  Wafadar,  his  uncle, 
merely  the  rebel.  Therefore  take  back  my  last  word 
to  Wafadar  Nazim.  Let  him  make  submission  to  me 
as  representative  of  the  Sirkar,  and  lay  down  his  arms. 
Then  I  will  intercede  for  him  with  the  Government,  so 
that  his  punishment  be  light." 

The  Diwan  smiled  and  his  voice  changed  once  more 
to  a  note  of  insolence. 

"His  Highness  Wafadar  Nazim  is  now  the  Khan  of 
Chiltistan.  The  other,  the  deposed,  lies  cooped  up  in 
this  fort,  a  prisoner  of  the  British,  whose  willing  slave 
he  has  always  been.  The  British  must  retire  from  our 
country.  His  Highness  Wafadar  Nazim  desires  them 
no  harm.     But  they  must  go  now!" 

Luffe  looked  sternly  at  the  Diwan. 

"Tell  Wafadar  Nazim  to  have  a  care  lest  they  go 
never,  but  set  their  foot  firmly  upon  the  neck  of  this  re- 
bellious people." 

He  rose  to  signify  that  the  conference  was  at  an  end. 
But  the  Diwan  did  not  stir.  He  smiled  pensively  and 
played  with  the  tassels  of  his  cushion. 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  "how  true  it  is  that  his  Highness 
thinks  only  of  the  Colonel  Sahib's  safety." 

Some  note  of  satisfaction,  not  quite  perfectly  con- 
cealed, some  sly  accent  of  triumph  sounding  through 
the  gently  modulated  words,  smote  upon  Luffe's  ears, 

23 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

and  warned  him  that  the  true  meaning  of  the  Diwan's 
visit  was  only  now  to  be  revealed.  All  that  had  gone 
before  was  nothing.  The  polite  accusations,  the  wordy 
repetitions,  the  expressions  of  good  will — these  were 
the  mere  preliminaries,  the  long  salute  before  the  com- 
bat. Luffe  steeled  himself  against  a  blow,  controlling 
his  face  and  his  limbs  lest  a  look  or  a  gesture  should  be- 
tray the  hurt.  And  it  was  well  that  he  did,  for  the  next 
moment  the  blow  fell. 

^'For  bad  news  has  come  to  us.  Sahib  Linforth 
met  his  death  two  days  ago,  fifty  miles  from  here,  in 
the  camp  of  his  Excellency  Abdulla  iNIahommed,  the 
Commander-in-Chief  to  his  Highness.  Abdulla  ]Ma- 
hommed  is  greatly  grieved,  knowing  well  that  this  vio- 
lent act  will  raise  up  a  prejudice  against  him  and  his 
Highness.  Moreover,  he  too  would  live  in  friendship 
with  the  British.  But  his  soldiers  are  justly  provoked 
by  the  violation  of  treaties  by  the  British,  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  stay  their  hands.  Therefore,  before  Ab- 
dulla Mahommed  joins  hands  with  my  master,  Wafadar 
Nazim,  before  this  fort,  it  will  be  well  for  the  Colonel 
Sahib  and  his  troops  to  be  safely  out  of  reach." 

Luffe  was  doubtful  whether  to  believe  the  words  or 
no.  The  story  might  be  a  lie  to  frighten  him  and  to 
discourage  the  garrison.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was 
likely  enough  to  be  true.  And  if  true,  it  was  the 
worst  news  which  Luffe  had  heard  for  many  a  long 
day. 

24 


LINFORTH'S   DEATH 

"Let  me  hear  how  the — accident — occurred,"  he 
said,  smiHng  grimly  at  the  euphemism  he  used. 

''Sahib  Linforth  was  in  the  tent  set  apart  for  him  by 
Abdulla  Mahommed.  There  were  guards  to  protect 
him,  but  it  seems  they  did  not  watch  well.  Huzoor, 
all  have  been  punished,  but  punishment  will  not  bring 
Sahib  Linforth  to  life  again.  Therefore  hear  the  words 
of  Wafadar  Nazim,  spoken  now  for  the  last  time.  He 
himself  will  escort  you  and  your  soldiers  and  officers 
to  the  borders  of  British  territory,  so  that  he  may  rejoice 
to  know  that  you  are  safe.  You  will  leave  his  Highness 
Mir  Ali  behind,  who  will  resign  his  throne  in  favour  of 
his  uncle  Wafadar,  and  so  there  will  be  peace." 

"And  what  will  happen  to  Mir  Ali,  whom  we  have 
promised  to  protect?" 

The  Diwan  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  gentle,  dep- 
recatory fashion  and  smiled  his  melancholy  smile. 
His  gesture  and  his  attitude  suggested  that  it  was  not 
in  the  best  of  taste  to  raise  so  unpleasant  a  question. 
But  he  did  not  reply  in  words. 

"You  will  tell  Wafadar  Nazim  that  we  will  know 
how  to  protect  his  Highness  the  Khan,  and  that  we  will 
teach  Abdulla  Mahommed  a  lesson  in  that  respect  be- 
fore many  moons  have  passed,"  Luffe  said  sternly. 
"As  for  this  story  of  Sahib  Linforth,  I  do  not  believe 
a  word  of  it." 

The  Diwan  nodded  his  head. 

"It  was  believed  that  you  would  reply  in  this  way. 

25 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Therefore  here  are  proofs."  He  drew  from  his  dress 
a  silver  watch  upon  a  leather  watch-guard,  a  letter-case, 
and  to  these  he  added  a  letter  in  Linforth's  own  hand. 
He  handed  them  to  Luffe. 

Luffe  handed  the  watch  and  chain  to  Dewes,  and 
opened  the  letter-case.  There  was  a  letter  in  it,  written 
in  a  woman's  handwriting,  and  besides  the  letter  the 
portrait  of  a  girl.  He  glanced  at  the  letter  and 
glanced  at  the  portrait.  Then  he  passed  them  on  to 
Dewes. 

Dewes  looked  at  the  portrait  with  a  greater  care. 
The  face  w^as  winning  rather  than  pretty.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  it  was  one  of  those  faces  which  might  be- 
come beautiful  at  many  moments  through  the  spirit  of 
the  woman,  rather  than  from  any  grace  of  feature.  If 
she  loved,  for  instance,  she  would  be  really  beautiful 
for  the  man  she  loved. 

"I  wonder  who  she  is,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"I  know,"  replied  Luffe,  almost  carelessly.  He 
was  immersed  in  the  second  letter  which  the  Diwan  had 
handed  to  him. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Dewes. 

"Linforth's  wife." 

"His  wife!"  exclaimed  Dewes,  and,  looking  at  the 
photograph  again,  he  said  in  a  low  voice  which  was 
gentle  with  compassion,  "Poor  woman!" 

"Yes,  yes.  Poor  woman!"  said  Luffe,  and  he  went 
on  reading  his  letter. 

26 


LINFORTH'S  DEATH 

It  was  characteristic  of  Luffe  that  he  should  feel  so 
little  concern  in  the  domestic  side  of  Linforth's  life. 
He  was  not  very  human  in  his  outlook  on  the  world. 
Questions  of  high  policy  interested  and  engrossed  his 
mind;  he  lived  for  the  Frontier,  not  so  much  subduing 
a  man's  natural  emotions  as  unaware  of  them.  Men 
figured  in  his  thoughts  as  the  instruments  of  policy; 
their  womenfolk  as  so  many  hindrances  or  aids  to 
the  fulfilment  of  their  allotted  tasks.  Thus  Linforth's 
death  troubled  him  greatly,  since  Linforth  was  greatly 
concerned  in  one  great  undertaking.  Moreover,  the 
scheme  had  been  very  close  to  Linforth's  heart,  even 
as  it  was  to  Luffe's.  But  Linforth's  wife  was  in  Eng- 
land, and  thus,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  neither  aid  nor  im- 
pediment. But  in  that  he  was  wrong.  She  had  been 
the  mainspring  of  Linforth's  energy,  and  so  much 
was  evident  in  the  letter  which  Luffe  read  slowly  to  the 
end. 

"Yes,  Linforth's  dead,"  said  he,  with  a  momentary 
discouragement.  "There  are  many  whom  we  could 
more  easily  have  spared.  Of  course  the  thing  will  go 
on.  That's  certain,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head.  A 
cold  satisfaction  shone  in  his  eyes.  "But  Linforth 
was  part  of  the  Thing." 

He  passed  the  second  letter  to  Dewes,  who  read  it; 
and  for  a  while  both  men  remained  thoughtful  and,  as 
it  seemed,  unaware  for  the  moment  of  the  Diwan's 
presence.     There  was  this  difference,  however.     Luffe 

27 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

was  thinking  of  "the  Thing";  Dewes  was  pondering  on 
the  grim  httle  tragedy  which  these  letters  revealed,  and 
thanking  Heaven  in  all  simplicity  of  heart  that  there  was 
no  woman  waiting  in  fear  because  of  him  and  trem- 
bling at  sight  of  each  telegraph  boy  she  met  upon  the 
road. 

The  grim  little  tragedy  was  not  altogether  uncommon 
upon  the  Indian  frontier,  but  it  gained  vividness  from 
the  brevity  of  the  letters  which  related  it.  The  first  one, 
that  in  the  woman's  hand,  written  from  a  house  under 
the  Downs  of  Sussex,  told  of  the  birth  of  a  boy  in  words 
at  once  sacred  and  simple.  They  were  written  for  the 
eyes  of  one  man,  and  Major  Dewes  had  a  feeling  that 
his  own,  however  respectfully,  violated  their  sanctity. 
The  second  letter  was  an  unfinished  one  written  by  the 
husband  to  the  wife  from  his  tent  amongst  the  rabble 
of  Abdulla  Mahommed.  Linforth  clearly  understood 
that  this  was  the  last  letter  he  would  write.  "I  am 
sitting  writing  this  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  The  tent 
door  is  open.  In  front  of  me  I  can  see  the  great  snow- 
mountains.  All  the  ugliness  of  the  lower  shale  slopes 
is  hidden.  By  such  a  moonlight,  my  dear,  may  you 
always  look  back  upon  my  memory.  For  it  is  over, 
Sybil.  They  are  waiting  until  I  fall  asleep.  I  have 
been  warned  of  it.  But  I  shall  fall  asleep  to-night.  I 
have  kept  awake  for  two  nights.     I  am  very  tired." 

He  had  fallen  asleep  even  before  the  letter  was  com- 
pleted.    There  was  a  message  for  the  boy  and  a  wish: 

28 


LINFORTH'S  DEATH 

"May  he  meet  a  woman  like  you,  my  dear,  when  his 
time  comes,  and  love  her  as  I  love  you,"  and  again  came 
the  phrase,  "I  am  very  tired."  It  spoke  of  the  boy's 
school,  and  continued :  ''  Whether  he  will  come  out  here 
it  is  too  early  to  think  about.  But  the  road  will  not  be 
finished — and  I  wonder.  If  he  wants  to,  let  him!  We 
Linforths  belong  to  the  road,"  and  for  the  third  time 
the  phrase  recurred,  "I  am  very  tired,"  and  upon  the 
phrase  the  letter  broke  off. 

Dewes  could  imagine  Linforth  falling  forward  with 
his  head  upon  his  hands,  his  eyes  heavy  with  sleep, 
while  from  without  the  tent  the  patient  Chiltis  watched 
until  he  slept. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked. 

"They  cast  a  noose  over  his  head,"  replied  the  Diwan, 
"dragged  him  from  the  tent  and  stabbed  him." 

Dewes  nodded  and  turned  to  Luffe. 

"These  letters  and  things  must  go  home  to  his  wife. 
It's  hard  on  her,  with  a  boy  only  a  few  months  old." 

"A  boy?"  said  Luffe,  rousing  himself  from  his 
thoughts.  "Oh!  there's  a  boy?  I  had  not  noticed 
that.  I  wonder  how  far  the  road  will  have  gone  when 
he  comes  out."  There  was  no  doubt  in  Luffe's  mind, 
at  all  events,  as  to  the  boy's  destiny.  He  turned  to  the 
Diwan. 

"Tell  Wafadar  Nazim  that  I  will  open  the  gates  of 
this  fort  and  march  down  to  British  territory  after  he 
has  made  submission,"  he  said. 

29 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

The  Diwan  smiled  in  a  melancholy  way.  He  had 
done  his  best,  but  the  British  were,  of  course,  all  mad. 
He  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room  and  stalked  through 
the  alleys  to  the  gates. 

"  Wafadar  Nazim  must  be  very  sure  of  victory,"  said 
Luffe.  "  He  would  hardly  have  given  us  that  unfinished 
letter  had  he  a  fear  we  should  escape  him  in  the  end." 

"He  could  not  read  what  was  written,"  said  Dewes. 

"  But  he  could  fear  what  was  written,"  replied  Luffe. 

As  he  walked  across  the  courtyard  he  heard  the  crack 
of  a  rifle.  The  sound  came  from  across  the  river.  The 
truce  was  over,  the  siege  was  already  renewed. 


30 


CHAPTER  IV 


LUFFE   LOOKS   FORWARD 


It  was  the  mine  underneath  the  North  Tower  which 
brought  the  career  of  Luffe  to  an  end.  The  garrison, 
indeed,  had  Hved  in  fear  of  this  peril  ever  since  the  siege 
began.  But  inasmuch  as  no  attempt  to  mine  had  been 
made  during  the  first  month,  the  fear  had  grown  dim. 
It  was  revived  during  the  fifth  week.  The  officers  were 
at  mess  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  a  havildar 
of  Sikhs  burst  into  the  courtyard  with  the  news  that  the 
sound  of  a  pick  could  be  heard  from  the  chamber  of 
the  tower. 

"At  last!"  cried  Dewes,  springing  to  his  feet.  The 
six  men  hurried  to  the  tower.  A  long  loophole  had  been 
fashioned  in  the  thick  wall  on  a  downward  slant,  so 
that  a  marksman  might  command  anyone  who  crept 
forward  to  fire  the  fort.  Against  this  loophole  Luffe 
leaned  his  ear. 

"Do  you  hear  anything,  sir?"  asked  a  subaltern  of 
the  Sappers  who  was  attached  to  the  force. 

"Hush!"  said  Luffe. 

He  listened,  and  he  heard  quite  clearly  underneath 
the  ground  below  him  the  dull  shock  of  a  pickaxe.  The 
noise  came  almost  from  beneath  his  feet;  so  near  the 

31 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

mine  had  been  already  driven  to  the  walls.  The  strokes 
fell  with  the  regularity  of  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  But  at 
times  the  sound  changed  in  character.  The  muffled 
thud  of  the  pick  upon  earth  became  a  clang  as  it  struck 
upon  stone. 

"Do  you  listen!"  said  Luffe,  giving  way  to  Dewes, 
and  Dewes  in  his  turn  leaned  his  ear  against  the  loop- 
hole. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Luffe. 

Dewes  stood  up  straight  again. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  thinking.  I  am  thinking  it 
sounds  like  the  beating  of  a  clock  in  a  room  where  a 
man  lies  dying,"  he  said. 

Luffe  nodded  his  head.  But  images  and  romantic 
sayings  struck  no  response  from  him.  He  turned  to 
the  young  Sapper. 

"Can  we  countermine?" 

The  young  Engineer  took  the  place  of  Major  Dewes. 

"We  can  try,  but  we  are  late,"  said  he. 

"It  must  be  a  sortie  then,"  said  Luffe. 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  Lynes  eagerly.  "Let  me  go.  Sir 
Charles!" 

Luffe  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm. 

"How  many  men  will  you  require?"  he  asked. 
"Sixty?" 

"A  hundred,"  replied  Dewes  promptly. 

All  that  night  Luffe  superintended  the  digging  of  the 
countermine,  while  Dewes  made  ready  for  the  sortie. 

32 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

By  daybreak  the  arrangements  were  completed.  The 
gunpowder  bags,  with  their  fuses  attached,  were  dis- 
tributed, the  gates  were  suddenly  flung  open,  and  Lynes 
raced  out  with  a  hundred  Ghurkhas  and  Sikhs  across 
the  fifty  yards  of  open  ground  to  the  sangar  behind 
which  the  mine  shaft  had  been  opened.  The  work  of 
the  hundred  men  was  quick  and  complete.  Within 
half  an  hour,  Lynes,  himself  wounded,  had  brought 
back  his  force,  and  left  the  mine  destroyed.  But  dur- 
ing that  half -hour  disaster  had  fallen  upon  the  garrison. 
Luffe  had  dropped  as  he  was  walking  back  across  the 
courtyard  to  his  ofiice.  For  a  few  minutes  he  lay  un- 
noticed in  the  empty  square,  his  face  upturned  to  the 
sky,  and  then  a  clamorous  sound  of  lamentation  was 
heard  and  an  orderly  came  running  through  the  alleys 
of  the  Fort,  crying  out  that  the  Colonel  Sahib  was 
dead. 

He  was  not  dead,  however.  He  recovered  concious- 
ness  that  night,  and  early  in  the  morning  Dewes  was 
roused  from  his  sleep.  He  woke  to  find  the  Doctor 
shaking  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Luffe  wants  you.  He  has  not  got  very  long  now. 
He  has  something  to  say." 

Dewes  slipped  on  his  clothes,  and  hurried  down  the 
stairs.  He  followed  the  Doctor  through  the  little  wind- 
ing alleys  which  gave  to  the  Fort  the  appearance  of  a 
tiny  village.  It  was  broad  daylight,  but  the  fortress 
was   strangely  silent.     The   people   whom  he  passed 

33 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

either  spoke  not  at  all  or  spoke  only  in  low  tones.  They 
sat  huddled  in  groups,  waiting.  Fear  was  abroad  that 
morning.  It  was  known  that  the  brain  of  the  defence 
was  dying.  It  was  known,  too,  what  cruel  fate  awaited 
those  within  the  Fort,  if  those  without  ever  forced  the 
gates  and  burst  in  upon  their  victims. 

Dewes  found  the  Political  Officer  propped  up  on  pil- 
lows on  his  camp-bed.  The  door  from  the  courtyard 
was  open,  and  the  morning  light  poured  brightly  into 
the  room. 

"Sit  here,  close  to  me,  Dewes,"  said  Luffe  in  a  whis- 
per, "and  listen,  for  I  am  very  tired."  A  smile  came 
upon  his  face.  "  Do  you  remember  Linforth's  letters  ? 
How  that  phrase  came  again  and  again:  *I  am  very 
tired.'" 

The  Doctor  arranged  the  pillows  underneath  his 
shoulders,  and  then  I^uffe  said: 

"All  right.     I  shall  do  now." 

He  waited  until  the  Doctor  had  gone  from  the  room 
and  continued: 

"  I  am  not  going  to  talk  to  you  about  the  Fort.  The 
defence  is  safe  in  your  hands,  so  long  as  defence  is  possi- 
ble. Besides,  if  it  falls  it's  not  a  great  thing.  The 
troops  will  come  up  and  trample  down  Wafadar  Nazim 
and  Abdulla  Mahommed.  They  are  not  the  danger. 
The  road  will  go  on  again,  even  though  Linforth's  dead. 
No,  the  man  whom  I  am  afraid  of  is — the  son  of  the 
Khan." 

34 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

Dewes  stared,  and  then  said  in  a  soothing  voice: 

"He  will  be  looked  after." 

"You  think  my  mind's  wandering,"  continued  Luffe. 
"It  never  was  clearer  in  my  life.  The  Khan's  son  is  a 
boy  a  week  old.  Nevertheless  I  tell  you  that  boy  is  the 
danger  in  Chiltistan.  The  father — we  know  him.  A 
good  fellow  who  has  lost  all  the  confidence  of  his  people. 
There  is  hardly  an  adherent  of  his  who  genuinely  likes 
him;  there's  hardly  a  man  in  this  Fort  who  doesn't  be- 
lieve that  he  wished  to  sell  his  country  to  the  British. 
I  should  think  he  is  impossible  here  in  the  future.  And 
everyone  in  Government  House  knows  it.  We  shall 
do  the  usual  thing,  I  have  no  doubt — pension  him  off, 
settle  him  down  comfortably  outside  the  borders  of 
Chiltistan,  and  rule  the  country  as  trustee  for  his  son 
— until  the  son  comes  of  age." 

Dewes  realised  surely  enough  that  Luffe  was  in  pos- 
session of  his  faculties,  but  he  thought  his  anxiety  ex- 
aggerated. 

"You  are  looking  rather  far  ahead,  aren't  you,  sir?" 
he  asked. 

Luffe  smiled. 

"Twenty-one  years.  What  are  twenty-one  years  to 
India?     My  dear  Dewes!" 

He  was  silent.  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  hesita- 
ting whether  he  would  say  a  word  more  to  this  Major 
who  in  India  talked  of  twenty-one  years  as  a  long  span 
of  time.     But  there  was  no  one  else  to  whom  he  could 

35 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

confide  his  fears.     If  Dewes  was  not  brilliant,  he  was 
at  all  events  all  that  there  was. 

"  I  wish  I  was  going  to  live,"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice 
of  exasperation.  "  I  wish  I  could  last  just  long  enough 
to  travel  down  to  Calcutta  and  make  them  listen  to  me. 
But  there's  no  hope  of  it.  You  must  do  what  you  can, 
Dewes,  but  very  likely  they  won't  pay  any  attention  to 
you.  Very  likely  you'll  believe  me  wrong  yourself, 
eh?  Poor  old  Luffe,  a  man  with  a  bee  in  his  bonnet, 
eh?"  he  whispered  savagely. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Dewes.  "  You  know  the  Frontier. 
I  know  that." 

*'  And  even  there  you  are  wrong.  No  man  knows  the 
Frontier.  We  are  all  stumbling  in  the  dark  among  these 
peoples,  with  their  gentle  voices  and  their  cut-throat 
ways.  The  most  that  you  can  know  is  that  you  are 
stumbling  in  the  dark.  Well,  let's  get  back  to  the  boy 
here.  This  country  will  be  kept  for  him,  for  twenty- 
one  years.  Where  is  he  going  to  be  during  those  twenty- 
one  years?" 

Dewes  caught  at  the  question  as  an  opportunity  for 
reassuring  the  Political  Officer. 

"Why,  sir,  the  Khan  told  us.  Have  you  forgotten? 
He  is  to  go  to  Eton  and  Oxford.  He'll  see  something 
of  England.  He  will  learn — "  and  Major  Dewes 
stopped  short,  baffled  by  the  look  of  hopelessness  upon 
the  Political  Officer's  face. 

"I  think  you  are  all  mad,"  said  Luffe,  and  he  sud- 

36 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

denly  started  up  in  his  bed  and  cried  with  vehemence, 
"You  take  these  boys  to  England.  You  train  them  in 
the  ways  of  the  West,  the  ideas  of  the  West,  and  then  you 
send  them  back  again  to  the  East,  to  rule  over  Eastern 
people,  according  to  Eastern  ideas,  and  you  think  all 
is  well.  I  tell  you,  Dewes,  it's  sheer  lunacy.  Of  course 
it's  true — this  boy  won't  perhaps  suffer  in  esteem  among 
his  people  quite  as  much  as  others  have  done.  He 
belongs  and  his  people  belong  to  the  Maulai  sect. 
The  laws  of  religion  are  not  strict  among  them. 
They  drink  wine,  they  eat  what  they  wdll,  they  do  not 
lose  caste  so  easily.  But  you  have  to  look  at  the  man 
as  he  will  be,  the  hybrid  mixture  of  East  and  West." 

He  sank  back  among  his  pillows,  exhausted  by  the 
violence  of  his  outcry,  and  for  a  little  while  he  was  silent. 
Then  he  began  again,  but  this  time  in  a  low,  pleading 
voice,  which  was  very  unusual  in  him,  and  which  kept 
the  words  he  spoke  vivid  and  fresh  in  Dewes'  memory 
for  many  years  to  come.  Indeed,  Dewes  would  not 
have  believed  that  Luffe  could  have  spoken  on  any  sub- 
ject with  so  much  wistfulness. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Dewes.  I  have  lived  for  the  Frontier. 
I  have  had  no  other  interest,  almost  no  other  ties.  I 
am  not  a  man  of  friends.  I  believed  at  one  time  Lin- 
forth  was  my  friend.  I  believed  I  liked  him  very  much. 
But  I  think  now  that  it  was  only  because  he  was  bound 
up  with  the  Frontier.  The  Frontier  has  been  my  wife, 
my  children,  my  home,  my  one  long  and  lasting  passion. 

37 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

And  I  am  very  well  content  that  it  has  been  so.  I  don't 
regret  missed  opportunities  of  happiness.  What  I  re- 
gret is  that  I  shall  not  be  alive  in  twenty-one  years  to 
avert  the  danger  I  foresee,  or  to  laugh  at  my  fears  if  I 
am  wrong.  They  can  do  what  they  like  in  Rajputana 
and  Bengal  and  Bombay.  But  on  the  Frontier  I  want 
things  to  go  well.     Oh,  how  I  want  them  to  go  well!" 

Luffe  had  grown  very  pale,  and  the  sweat  glistened 
upon  his  forehead.  Dewes  held  to  his  lips  a  glass  of 
brandy  which  stood  upon  a  table  beside  the  bed. 

*'What  danger  do  you  foresee?"  asked  Dewes.  "I 
will  remember  what  you  say." 

"Yes,  remember  it;  write  it  out,  so  that  you  may  re- 
member it,  and  din  it  into  their  ears  at  Government 
House,"  said  Luffe.  ''You  take  these  boys,  you  give 
them  Oxford,  a  season  in  London — did  you  ever  have 
a  season  in  London  when  you  were  twenty-one,  Dewes  ? 
You  show  them  Paris.  You  give  them  opportunities 
of  enjoyment,  such  as  no  other  age,  no  other  place  af- 
fords— has  ever  afforded.  You  give  them,  for  a  short 
while,  a  life  of  colour,  of  swift  crowding  hours  of  pleas- 
ure, and  then  you  send  them  back — to  settle  down  in 
their  native  States,  and  obey  the  orders  of  the  Resident. 
Do  you  think  they  will  be  content  ?  Do  you  think  they 
will  have  their  heart  in  their  work,  in  their  humdrum 
life,  in  their  elaborate  ceremonies?  Oh,  there  are  in- 
stances enough  to  convince  if  only  people  would  listen. 
There's  a  vouth  now  in  the  South,  the  heir  of  an  Indian 

38 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

throne — he  has  six  weeks'  hoHday.  How  does  he  use 
it,  do  you  think?  He  travels  hard  to  England,  spends 
a  week  there,  and  travels  back  again.  In  England  he 
is  treated  as  an  equal;  here,  in  spite  of  his  ceremonies, 
he  is  an  iiijerior,  and  will  and  must  be  so.  The  best  you 
can  hope  is  that  he  will  be  merely  unhappy.  You  pray 
that  he  won't  take  to  drink  and  make  his  friends  among 
the  jockeys  and  the  trainers.  He  has  lost  the  taste  for 
the  native  life,  and  nevertheless  he  has  got  to  live  it. 
Besides — besides — I  haven't  told  you  the  worst  of 
it." 

Dewes  leaned  forward.  The  sincerity  of  Luffe  had 
gained  upon  him.     *'Let  me  hear  all,"  he  said. 

"There  is  the  white  woman,"  continued  Luffe. 
"The  English  woman,  the  English  girl,  with  her  dainti- 
ness, her  pretty  frocks,  her  good  looks,  her  delicate 
charm.  Very  likely  she  only  thinks  of  him  as  a 
picturesque  figure;  she  dances  with  him,  but  she  does 
not  take  him  seriously.  Yes,  but  he  may  take  her  seri- 
ously, and  often  does.  What  then  ?  When  he  is  told 
to  go  back  to  his  State  and  settle  down,  what  then  ? 
Will  he  be  content  with  a  wife  of  his  own  people? 
He  is  already  a  stranger  among  his  own  folk.  He 
will  eat  out  his  heart  with  bitterness  and  jealousy. 
And,  mind  you,  I  am  speaking  of  the  best — the  best  of 
the  Princes  and  the  best  of  the  English  women.  What 
of  the  others?  The  English  women  who  take  his 
pearls,  and  the  Princes  who  come  back  and  boast  of 

39 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

their  success.  Do  you  think  that  is  good  for  British 
rule  in  India?     Give  me  something  to  drink!" 

Luffe  poured  out  his  vehement  convictions  to  his  com- 
panion, wishing  with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  one  of 
the  great  ones  of  the  Viceroy's  Council  at  his  side,  in- 
stead of  this  zealous  but  somewhat  commonplace 
Major  of  a  Sikh  regiment.  All  the  more,  therefore, 
must  he  husband  his  strength,  so  that  all  that  he  had 
in  mind  might  be  remembered.  There  would  be  little 
chance,  perhaps,  of  it  bearing  fruit.  Still,  even  that 
little  chance  must  be  grasped.  And  so  in  that  high 
castle  beneath  the  Himalayas,  besieged  by  insurgent 
tribes,  a  dying  Political  Officer  discoursed  upon  this 
question  of  high  policy. 

"  I  told  you  of  a  supper  I  had  one  night  at  the  Savoy 
— do  you  remember?  You  all  looked  sufficiently  as- 
tonished when  I  told  you  to  bear  it  in  mind." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Dewes. 

"  Very  well.  I  told  you  I  learned  something  from  the 
lady  who  was  with  me  w^hich  it  was  good  for  me  to 
know.  I  saw  something  which  it  was  good  for  me  to  see. 
Good — ^yes,  but  not  pleasant  either  to  know  or  see. 
There  was  a  young  Prince  in  England  then.  He  dined 
in  high  places  and  afterwards  supped  at  the  Savoy 
with  the  coryphees;  and  both  in  the  high  places  and 
among  the  coryphees  his  jewels  had  made  him  welcome. 
This  is  truth  I  am  telling  you.  He  was  a  boaster. 
Well,  after  supper  that  night  he  threw  a  girl  down  the 

40 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

stairs.  Never  mind  what  she  was — she  was  of  the  white 
ruUng  race,  she  was  of  the  race  that  rules  in  India. 
He  comes  back  to  India  and  insolently  boasts.  Do 
you  approve?     Do  you  think  that  good?" 

"I  think  it's  horrible,"  exclaimed  Dewes. 

"Well,  I  have  done,"  said  Luffe.  "This  youngster 
is  to  go  to  Oxford.  Unhappiness  and  the  distrust  of 
his  own  people  will  be  the  best  that  can  come  of  it,  while 
ruin  and  disasters  very  well  may.  There  are  many 
ways  of  disaster.  Suppose,  for  instance,  this  boy  were 
to  turn  out  a  strong  man.     Do  you  see  ?" 

Dewes  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  he  answered,  and  he  answered  so  be- 
cause he  saw  that  Luffe  had  come  to  the  end  of  his 
strength.  His  voice  had  weakened,  he  lay  with  his  eyes 
sunk  deep  in  his  head  and  a  leaden  pallor  upon  his 
face,  and  his  breath  laboured  as  he  spoke. 

"I  am  glad,"  replied  Luffe,  "that  you  understand." 

But  it  was  not  until  many  years  had  passed  that 
Dewes  saw  and  understood  the  trouble  which  was  then 
stirring  in  Luffe's  mind.  And  even  then,  when  he  did 
see  and  understand,  he  wondered  how  much  Luffe 
really  had  foreseen.  Enough,  at  all  events,  to  justify 
his  reputation  for  sagacity.  Dewes  went  out  from  the 
bedroom  and  climbed  up  on  to  the  roof  of  the  Fort. 
The  sun  was  up,  the  day  already  hot,  and  would  have 
been  hotter,  but  that  a  light  wind  stirred  among  the 
almond  trees  in  the  garden.     The  leaves  of  those  trees 

41 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

now  actually  brushed  against  the  Fort  walls.  Five 
weeks  ago  there  had  been  bare  stems  and  branches. 
Suddenly  a  rifle  cracked,  a  little  puff  of  smoke  rose  close 
to  a  boulder  on  the  far  side  of  the  river,  a  bullet  sang  in 
the  air  past  Dewes'  head.  He  ducked  behind  the 
palisade  of  boards.  Another  day  had  come.  For  an- 
other day  the  flag,  manufactured  out  of  some  red  cloth, 
a  blue  turban  and  some  white  cotton,  floated  overhead. 
Meanwhile,  somewhere  among  the  passes,  the  relieving 
force  was  already  on  the  march. 

Late  that  afternoon  Luffe  died,  and  his  body  was 
buried  in  the  Fort.  He  had  done  his  work.  For  two 
days  afterwards  the  sound  of  a  battle  was  heard  to  the 
south,  the  siege  was  raised,  and  in  the  evening  the  Brig- 
adier-General in  Command  rode  up  to  the  gates  and 
found  a  tired  and  haggard  group  of  officers  awaiting 
him.  They  received  him  without  cheers  or  indeed  any 
outward  sign  of  rejoicing.  They  waited  in  a  dead 
silence,  like  beaten  and  dispirited  men.  They  were  be- 
ginning to  pay  the  price  of  their  five  weeks'  siege. 

The  Brigadier  looked  at  the  group. 

"What  of  Luffe?"  he  asked. 

"Dead,  sir,"  replied  Dewes. 

"A  great  loss,"  said  Brigadier  Appleton  solemnly. 
But  he  was  paying  his  tribute  rather  to  the  class  to  which 
Luffe  belonged  than  to  the  man  himself.  Luffe  was 
a  man  of  independent  views.  Brigadier  Appleton  a 
soldier   clinging    to    tradition.     Moreover,    there    had 

42 


LUFFE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

been  an  encounter  between  the  two  in  which  I.uffe  had 
prevailed. 

The  Brigadier  paid  a  ceremonious  visit  to  the  Khan 
on  the  following  morning,  and  once  more  the  Khan  ex- 
pounded his  views  as  to  the  education  of  his  son.  But 
he  expounded  them  now  to  sympathetic  ears. 

"  I  think  that  his  Excellency  disapproved  of  my  plan," 
said  the  Khan. 

"Did  he?"  cried  Brigadier  Appleton.  "On  some 
points  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Luffe's  views  were  not 
always  sound.  Certainly  let  the  boy  go  to  Eton  and 
Oxford.  A  fine  idea,  your  Highness.  The  training 
will  widen  his  mind,  enlarge  his  ideas,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  will  myself  urge  upon  the  Government's 
advisers  the  wisdom  of  your  Highness'  proposal." 

Moreover  Dewes  failed  to  carry  Luffe's  dying  message 
to  Calcutta.  For  on  one  point — a  point  of  fact — Luffe 
was  immediately  proved  wrong.  Mir  Ali,  the  Khan  of 
Chiltistan,  was  retained  upon  his  throne.  Dewes  turned 
the  matter  over  in  his  slow  mind.  Wrong  definitely, 
undeniably  wrong  on  the  point  of  fact,  was  it  not  likely 
that  Luffe  was  wrong  too  on  the  point  of  theory? 
Dewes  had  six  months  furlong  too,  besides,  and  was 
anxious  to  go  home.  It  would  be  a  bore  to  travel  to 
Bombay  by  way  of  Calcutta.  "  Let  the  boy  go  to  Eton 
and  Oxford!"  he  said.  "Why  not?"  and  the  years 
answered  him. 


43 


CHAPTER  V 

A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

The  little  war  of  Chiltistan  was  soon  forgotten  by  the 
world.  But  it  lived  vividly  enough  in  the  memories  of 
a  few  people  to  whom  it  had  brought  either  suffering  or 
fresh  honours.  But  most  of  all  it  was  remembered  by 
Sybil  Linforth,  so  that  even  after  fourteen  years  a 
chance  word,  or  a  trivial  coincidence,  would  bring  back 
to  her  the  horror  and  the  misery  of  that  time  as  freshly 
as  if  only  a  single  day  had  intervened.  Such  a  coin- 
cidence happened  on  this  morning  of  August. 

She  was  in  the  garden  with  her  back  to  the  Downs 
which  rose  high  from  close  behind  the  house,  and  she 
was  looking  across  the  fields  rich  with  orchards  and 
yellow  crops.  She  saw  a  small  figure  climb  a  stile 
and  come  towards  the  house  along  a  footpath,  increas- 
ing in  stature  as  it  approached.  It  was  Colonel  Dewes, 
and  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  day  when  first,  with 
reluctant  steps,  he  had  walked  along  that  path,  carrying 
with  him  a  battered  silver  watch  and  chain  and  a  little 
black  leather  letter-case.  Because  of  that  memory 
she  advanced  slowlv  towards  him  now. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  home,"  she  said,  as 
they  shook  hands.     "When  did  you  land?" 

44 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

"Yesterday.  I  am  home  for  good  now.  My  time 
is  up."  Sybil  Linforth  looked  quickly  at  his  face  and 
turned  away. 

**You  are  sorry?"  she  said  gently. 

"Yes.  I  don't  feel  old,  you  see.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
many  years'  good  work  in  me  jet.  But  there!  That's 
the  trouble  with  the  mediocre  men.  They  are  shelved 
before  they  are  old.     I  am  one  of  them." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  and  looked  at  his  companion. 

Sybil  Linforth  was  now  thirty-eight  years  old,  but 
the  fourteen  years  had  not  set  upon  her  the  marks  of 
their  passage  as  they  had  upon  Dewes.  Indeed,  she 
still  retained  a  look  of  youth,  and  all  the  slenderness  of 
her  figure. 

Dewes  grumbled  to  her  with  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

"I  wonder  how  in  the  world  you  do  it.  Here  am  I 
white-haired  and  creased  like  a  dry  pippin.     There  are 

you "  and  he  broke  off.     "I  suppose  it's  the  boy 

who  keeps  you  young.     How  is  he  ?  " 

A  look  of  anxiety  troubled  Mrs.  Linforth's  face;  into 
her  eyes  there  came  a  glint  of  fear.  Colonel  Dewes' 
voice  became  gentle  with  concern. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sybil?"  he  said.     "Is  he  ill?" 

"No,  he  is  quite  well." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

Sybil  Linforth  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  the 
gravel  of  the  garden-path.  Then,  without  raising  her 
eyes,  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 

45 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"I  am  afraid." 

"Ah,"  said  Dewes,  as  he  rubbed  his  chin,  "I  see." 

It  was  his  usual  remark  when  he  came  against  any- 
thing which  he  did  not  understand. 

"  You  must  let  me  have  him  for  a  week  or  two  some- 
times, Sybil.  Boys  will  get  into  trouble,  you  know. 
It  is  their  nature  to.  And  sometimes  a  man  may  be  of 
use  in  putting  things  straight." 

The  hint  of  a  smile  glimmered  about  Sybil  Lin- 
forth's  mouth,  but  she  repressed  it.  She  would  not 
for  worlds  have  let  her  friend  see  it,  lest  he  might  be 
hurt. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "Dick  is  not  in  any  trouble. 
But "  and  she  struggled  for  a  moment  with  a  feel- 
ing that  she  ought  not  to  say  what  she  greatly  desired 
to  say;  that  speech  would  be  disloyal.  But  the  need  to 
speak  was  too  strong  within  her,  her  heart  too  heavily 
charged  with  fear. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  and,  with  a  glance  towards 
the  open  windows  of  the  house,  she  led  Colonel  Dewes 
to  a  corner  of  the  garden  where,  upon  a  grass  mound, 
there  was  a  garden  seat.  From  this  seat  one  over- 
looked the  garden  hedge.  To  the  left,  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Poynings  with  its  grey  church  and  tall  tapering 
spire,  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  gap  in  the  Downs  where 
runs  the  Brighton  road.  Behind  them  the  Downs  ran 
like  a  rampart  to  right  and  left,  their  steep  green  sides 
scarred  here  and  there  by  landslips  and  showing  the 

46 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

white  chalk.  Far  away  the  high  trees  of  Chancton- 
bury  Ring  stood  out  against  the  sky. 

"Dick  has  secrets,"  Sybil  said,  "secrets  from  me. 
It  used  not  to  be  so.  I  have  always  known  how  a  want 
of  sympathy  makes  a  child  hide  w^hat  he  feels  and 
thinks,  and  drives  him  in  upon  himself,  to  feed  his 
thoughts  with  imaginings  and  dreams.  I  have  seen  it. 
I  don't  believe  that  anvthinff  but  harm  ever  comes  of 
it.  It  builds  up  a  barrier  which  will  last  for  life.  I 
did  not  want  that  barrier  to  rise  between  Dick  and  me 

— I "  and  her  voice  shook  a  little — "I  should  be 

very  unhappy  if  it  were  to  rise.  So  I  have  always 
tried  to  be  his  friend  and  comrade,  rather  than  his 
mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Colonel  Dewes,  wisely  nodding  his  head. 
"I  have  seen  you  playing  cricket  with  him." 

Colonel  Dewes  had  frequently  been  puzzled  by  a 
peculiar  change  of  manner  in  his  friends.  When  he 
made  a  remark  which  showed  how  clearly  he  under- 
stood their  point  of  view  and  how  closely  he  was  in 
agreement  with  it,  they  had  a  way  of  becoming  reticent 
in  the  very  moment  of  expansion.  The  current  of 
sympathy  was  broken,  and  as  often  as  not  they  turned 
the  conversation  altogether  into  a  conventional  and  less 
interesting  channel.  That  change  of  manner  became 
apparent  now.  Sybil  Linforth  leaned  back  and 
abruptly  ceased  to  speak. 

"Please  go  on,"  said  Dewes,  turning  towards  her. 

47 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

She  hesitated,  and  then  with  a  touch  of  reluctance 
continued : 

"I  succeeded  until  a  month  or  so  ago.  But  a  month 
or  so  ago  the  secrets  came.  Oh,  I  know  him  so  well. 
He  is  trying  to  hide  that  there  are  any  secrets  lest  his 
reticence  should  hurt  me.  But  we  have  been  so  much 
together,  so  much  to  each  other — how  should  I  not 
know?"  And  again  she  leaned  forward  with  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  together  upon  her  knees  and  a 
look  of  great  distress  lying  like  a  shadow  upon  her  face. 
"The  first  secrets,"  she  continued,  and  her  voice 
trembled,  "I  suppose  they  are  always  bitter  to  a 
mother.  But  since  I  have  nothing  but  Dick  they  hurt 
me  more  deeply  than  is  perhaps  reasonable";  and 
she  turned  towards  her  companion  with  a  poor  attempt 
at  a  smile. 

"What  sort  of  secrets?"  asked  Dewes.  "What  is 
he  hiding?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  and  she  repeated  the 
words,  adding  to  them  slowly  others.  "I  don't  know 
— and  I  am  a  little  afraid  to  guess.     But  I  know  that 

something  is  stirring  in  his  mind,  something  is " 

and  she  paused,  and  into  her  eyes  there  came  a  look  of 
actual  terror — "something  is  calling  him.  He  goes 
alone  up  on  to  the  top  of  the  Downs,  and  stays  there 
alone  for  hours.  I  have  seen  him.  I  have  come  upon 
him  unawares  lying  on  the  grass  with  his  face  towards 
the  sea,  his  lips  parted,  and  his  eyes  strained,  his  face 

48 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

absorbed.  He  has  been  so  lost  in  dreams  that  I  have 
come  close  to  him  through  the  grass  and  stood  beside 
him  and  spoken  to  him  before  he  grew  aware  that  any- 
one was  near." 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  to  be  a  sailor,"  suggested  Dewes. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  it  is  that,"  Sybil  answered  quietly. 
"If  it  were  so,  he  would  have  told  me." 

"Yes,"  Dewes  admitted.  "Yes,  he  would  have  told 
you.     I  was  wrong." 

"You  see,"  Mrs.  Linforth  continued,  as  though 
Dewes  had  not  interrupted,  "  it  is  not  natural  for  a  boy 
at  his  age  to  want  to  be  alone,  is  it  ?  I  don't  think  it  is 
good  either.  It  is  not  natural  for  a  boy  of  his  age  to 
be  thoughtful.  I  am  not  sure  that  that  is  good.  I  am, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  very  troubled." 

Dewes  looked  at  her  sharply.  Something,  not  so 
much  in  her  words  as  in  the  careful,  slow  manner  of 
her  speech,  warned  him  that  she  was  not  telling  him  all 
of  the  trouble  which  oppressed  her.  Her  fears  were 
more  definite  than  she  had  given  him  as  yet  reason  to 
understand.  There  was  not  enough  in  what  she  had 
said  to  account  for  the  tense  clasp  of  her  hands,  and 
the  glint  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Anyhow,  he's  going  to  the  big  school  next  term," 
he  said;  "that  is,  if  you  haven't  changed  your  mind 
since  you  last  wrote  to  me,  and  I  hope  you  haven't 
changed  your  mind.  All  that  he  wants  really,"  the 
Colonel  added  with  unconscious  cruelty,  "is  compan- 

49 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

ions  of  his  own  age.  He  passed  in  well,  didn't 
he?" 

Sybil  Linforth's  face  lost  for  the  moment  all  its  ap- 
prehension. A  smile  of  pride  made  her  face  very  tender, 
and  as  she  turned  to  Dewes  he  thought  to  himself  that 
really  her  eyes  were  beautiful. 

"Yes,  he  passed  in  very  high,"  she  said. 

"Eton,  isn't  it?"  said  Dewes.     "Whose  house?" 

She  mentioned  the  name  and  added :  "  His  father  was 
there  before  him."  Then  she  rose  from  her  seat. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  Dick?  I  will  show  you  him. 
Come  quietly." 

She  led  the  way  across  the  lawm  towards  an  open 
window.  It  was  a  day  of  sunshine;  the  garden  was 
bright  with  flowers,  and  about  the  windows  rose-trees 
climbed  the  house-walls.  It  w^as  a  house  of  red  brick, 
darkened  by  age,  and  with  a  roof  of  tiles.  To  Dewes' 
eyes,  nestling  as  it  did  beneath  the  great  grass  Downs, 
it  had  a  most  homelike  look  of  comfort.  Sybil  turned 
with  a  finger  on  her  lips. 

"Keep  this  side  of  the  window,"  she  whispered,  "or 
your  shadow  will  fall  across  the  floor." 

Standing  aside  as  she  bade  him,  he  looked  into  the 
room.  He  saw  a  boy  seated  at  a  table  with  his  head 
between  his  hands,  immersed  in  a  book  which  lay  be- 
fore him.  He  was  seated  with  his  side  towards  the 
window  and  his  hands  concealed  his  face.  But  in  a 
moment  he  removed  one  hand  and  turned  the  page. 

50 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

Colonel  Dewes  could  now  see  the  profile  of  his  face.  A 
firm  chin,  a  beauty  of  outline  not  very  common,  a  cer- 
tain delicacy  of  feature  and  colour  gave  to  him  a  dis- 
tinction of  which  Sybil  Linforth  might  well  be  proud. 

"He'll  be  a  dangerous  fellow  among  the  girls  in  a 
few  years'  time,"  said  Dewes,  turning  to  the  mother. 
But  Sybil  did  not  hear  the  words.  She  was  standing 
with  her  head  thrust  forward.  Her  face  was  white, 
her  whole  aspect  one  of  dismay.  Dewes  could  not 
understand  the  change  in  her.  A  moment  ago  she  had 
been  laughing  playfully  as  she  led  him  towards  the 
window.  Now  it  seemed  as  though  a  sudden  disaster 
had  turned  her  to  stone.  Yet  there  was  nothing  visible 
to  suggest  disaster.  Dewes  looked  from  Sybil  to  the 
boy  and  back  again.  Then  he  noticed  that  her  eyes 
were  riveted,  not  on  Dick's  face,  but  on  the  book  which 
he  was  reading. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Hush!"  said  Sybil,  but  at  that  moment  Dick  lifted 
his  head,  recognised  the  visitor,  and  came  forward  to 
the  window  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  There  was  no 
embarrassment  in  his  manner,  no  air  of  being  surprised. 
He  had  not  the  look  of  one  who  nurses  secrets.  A  broad 
open  forehead  surmounted  a  pair  of  steady  clear  grey  eyes. 

"Well,  Dick,  I  hear  you  have  done  well  in  your  ex- 
amination," said  the  Colonel,  as  he  shook  hands.  "If 
you  keep  it  up  I  will  leave  you  all  I  save  out  of  my  pen- 


sion. 


51 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Dick  with  a  laugh.  "How 
long  have  you  been  back.  Colonel  Dewes?" 

"I  left  India  a  fortnight  ago." 

"A  fortnight  ago."  Dick  leaned  his  arms  upon  the 
sill  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  Colonel's  face  asked 
quietly:  "How  far  does  the  Road  reach  now?" 

At  the  side  of  Colonel  Dewes  Sybil  Linforth  flinched 
as  though  she  had  been  struck.  But  it  did  not  need 
that  movement  to  explain  to  the  Colonel  the  perplexing 
problem  of  her  fears.  He  understood  now.  The  Lin- 
forths  belonged  to  the  Road.  The  Road  had  slain  her 
husband.  No  wonder  she  lived  in  terror  lest  it  should 
claim  her  son.     And  apparently  it  did  claim  him. 

"The  road  through  Chiltistan?"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Dick.  "  Of  what  other  could 
I  be  thinking?" 

"They  have  stopped  it,"  said  the  Colonel,  and  at  his 
side  he  was  aware  that  Sybil  Linforth  drew  a  deep 
breath.  "The  road  reaches  Kohara.  It  does  not  go 
beyond.     It  will  not  go  beyond." 

Dick's  eyes  steadily  looked  into  the  Colonel's  face; 
and  the  Colonel  had  some  trouble  to  meet  their  look 
with  the  same  frankness.  He  turned  aside  and  Mrs. 
Linforth  said, 

"Come  and  see  my  roses." 

Dick  went  back  to  his  book.  The  man  and  woman 
passed  on  round  the  corner  of  the  house  to  a  little  rose- 
garden  with  a  stone  sun-dial  in  the  middle,  surrounded 

52 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

by  low  red  brick  walls.  Here  it  was  very  quiet.  Only 
the  bees  among  the  flowers  filled  the  air  with  a  pleasant 
murmur. 

"They  are  doing  well — your  roses,"  said  Dewes. 

"Yes.  These  Queen  Mabs  are  good.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  I  am  rather  proud  of  them,"  said  Sybil;  and 
then  she  broke  off  suddenly  and  faced  him. 

"Is  it  true  ?"  she  whispered  in  a  low  passionate  voice. 
"  Is  the  road  stopped  ?    Will  it  not  go  beyond  Kohara  ?  " 

Colonel  Dewes  attempted  no  evasion  with  Mrs.  Lin- 
forth. 

"It  is  true  that  it  is  stopped.  It  is  also  true  that  for 
the  moment  there  is  no  intention  to  carry  it  further. 
But— but " 

And  as  he  paused  Sybil  took  up  the  sentence. 

"But  it  will  go  on,  I  know.  Sooner  or  later."  And 
there  was  almost  a  note  of  hopelessness  in  her  voice. 
"The  Power  of  the  Road  is  beyond  the  Power  of  Gov- 
ernments," she  added  with  the  air  of  one  quoting  a 
sentence. 

They  walked  on  between  the  alleys  of  rose-trees  and 
she  asked: 

"  Did  you  notice  the  book  which  Dick  was  reading  ?  " 

"It  looked  like  a  bound  volume  of  magazines." 

Sybil  nodded  her  head. 

"It  was  a  volume  of  the  'Fortnightly.'  He  was  read- 
ing an  article  written  forty  years  ago  by  Andrew  Lin- 

forth "  and  she  suddenly  cried  out,  "Oh,  how  I 

53 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

wish  he  had  never  Hved.  He  was  an  uncle  of  Harry's 
— my  husband.  He  predicted  it.  He  was  in  the  old 
Company,  then  he  became  a  servant  of  the  Government, 
and  he  was  the  first  to  begin  the  road.  You  know  his 
history?" 

"No." 

"  It  is  a  curious  one.  When  it  was  his  time  to  retire, 
he  sent  his  money  to  England,  he  made  all  his  arrange- 
ments to  come  home,  and  then  one  night  he  walked  out 
of  the  hotel  in  Bombay,  a  couple  of  days  before  the  ship 
sailed,  and  disappeared.  He  has  never  been  heard  of 
since." 

"Had  he  no  wife?"  asked  Dewes. 

"No,"  replied  Sybil.  "Do  you  know  what  I  think? 
I  think  he  went  back  to  the  north,  back  to  his  Road. 
I  think  it  called  him.  I  think  he  could  not  keep 
away." 

"  But  we  should  have  come  across  him,"  cried  Dewes, 
"or  across  news  of  him.     Surely  we  should!" 

Sybil  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"In  that  article  which  Dick  was  reading,  the  road 
was  first  proposed.  Listen  to  this,"  and  she  began  to 
recite : 

The  road  will  reach  northwards,  through  Chiltistan,  to  the 
foot  of  the  Baroghil  Pass,  in  the  mountains  of  the  Hindu  Kush. 
Not  yet,  but  it  will.  Many  men  will  die  in  the  building  of  it  from 
cold  and  dysentery,  and  even  hunger — Englishmen  and  coolies  from 
Baltistan.     Many  men  will  die  fighting  over  it,  Englishmen  and 

54 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

Chiltis,  and  Gurkhas  and  Sikhs.  It  will  cost  millions  of  money, 
and  from  policy  or  economy  successive  Governments  will  try  to 
stop  it;  but  the  power  of  the  Road  will  be  greater  than  the  power 
of  any  Government.  It  will  wind  through  valleys  so  deep  that  the 
day's  sunshine  is  gone  within  the  hour.  It  will  be  carried  in  galleries 
along  the  faces  of  mountains,  and  for  eight  months  of  the  year 
sections  of  it  will  be  buried  deep  in  snow.  Yet  it  will  be  finished. 
It  will  go  on  to  the  foot  of  the  Hindu  Kush,  and  then  only 
the  British  rule  in  India  will  be  safe. 

She  finished  the  quotation. 

"That  is  what  Andrew  Linforth  prophesied.  Much 
of  it  has  already  been  justified.  I  have  no  doubt  the 
rest  will  be  in  time.  I  think  he  went  north  when  he  dis- 
appeared. I  think  the  Road  called  him,  as  it  is  now — 
calling  Dick." 

She  made  the  admission  at  last  quite  simply  and 
quietly.  Yet  it  was  evident  to  Dewes  that  it  cost  her 
much  to  make  it. 

"Yes/'  he  said.     "That  is  what  you  fear." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  let  him  understand  some- 
thing of  the  terror  with  which  the  Road  inspired  her. 

"When  the  trouble  began  fourteen  years  ago,  when 
the  road  was  cut  and  day  after  day  no  news  came  of 
whether  Harry  lived  or,  if  he  died,  how  he  died — I 
dreamed  of  it — I  used  to  see  horrible  things  happening 
on  that  road — night  after  night  I  saw  them.  Dread- 
ful things  happening  to  Dick  and  his  father  while  I 
stood  by  and  could  do  nothing.  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  a 
living  thing  greedy  for  blood — our  blood." 

55 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

She  turned  to  him  a  haggard  face.  Dewes  sought 
to  reassure  her. 

"But  there  is  peace  now  in  Chiltistan.  We  keep  a 
close  watch  on  that  country,  I  can  tell  you.  I  don't 
think  we  shall  be  caught  napping  there  again." 

But  these  arguments  had  little  weight  with  Sybil 
Linforth.  The  tragedy  of  fourteen  years  ago  had  beaten 
her  down  with  too  strong  a  hand.  She  could  not  reason 
about  the  road.  She  only  felt,  and  she  felt  with  all  the 
passion  of  her  nature. 

"What  will  you  do,  then?"  asked  Dewes. 

She  walked  a  little  further  on  before  she  answered. 

"I  shall  do  nothing.  If,  when  the  time  comes,  Dick 
feels  that  work  upon  that  road  is  his  heritage,  if  he  wants 
to  follow  in  his  father's  steps,  I  shall  say  not  a  single 
word  to  dissuade  him." 

Dewes  stared  at  her.  This  half-hour  of  conversation 
had  made  real  to  him  at  all  events  the  great  strength  of 
her  hostility.  Yet  she  would  put  the  hostility  aside  and 
say  not  a  word. 

"That's  more  than  I  could  do,"  he  said,  "if  I  felt  as 
you  do.     By  George  it  is!" 

Sybil  smiled  at  him  with  friendliness. 

"  It's  not  bravery.  Do  you  remember  the  unfinished 
letter  which  you  brought  home  to  me  from  Harry? 
There  were  three  sentences  in  that  which  I  cannot  pre- 
tend to  have  forgotten,"  and  she  repeated  the  sentences: 

"'Whether  he  will  come  out  here,  it  is  too  early  to 

56 


A  MAGAZINE  ARTICLE 

think  about.  But  the  road  will  not  be  finished — and  I 
wonder.  If  he  wants  to,  let  him.'  It  is  quite  clear — 
isn't  it  ? — that  Harry  wanted  him  to  take  up  the  work. 
You  can  read  that  in  the  words.  I  can  imagine  him 
speaking  them  and  hear  the  tone  he  would  use.  Be- 
sides— I  have  still  a  greater  fear  than  the  one  of  which 
you  know.  I  don't  want  Dick,  when  he  grows  up,  ever 
to  think  that  I  have  been  cowardly,  and,  because  I  was 
cowardly,  disloyal  to  his  father." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Colonel  Dewes. 

And  this  time  he  really  did  understand. 

"We  will  go  in  and  lunch,"  said  Sybil,  and  they 
walked  back  to  the  house. 


57 


CHAPTER  VI 


A  LONG   WALK 


The  footsteps  sounded  overhead  with  a  singular  reg- 
ularity. From  the  fireplace  to  the  door,  and  back  again 
from  the  door  to  the  fireplace.  At  each  turn  there  was 
a  short  pause,  and  each  pause  was  of  the  same  duration. 
The  footsteps  were  very  light;  it  was  almost  as  though 
an  animal,  a  caged  animal,  padded  from  the  bars  at 
one  end  to  the  bars  at  the  other.  There  was  something 
stealthy  in  the  footsteps  too. 

In  the  room  below  a  man  of  forty-five  sat  writing  at 
a  desk — a  very  tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  in  clerical 
dress.  Twenty-five  years  before  he  had  rowed  as 
number  seven  in  the  Oxford  Eight,  with  an  eye  all  the 
while  upon  a  mastership  at  his  old  school.  He  had 
taken  a  first  in  Greats;  he  had  obtained  his  mastership; 
for  the  last  two  years  he  had  had  a  House.  As  he  had 
been  at  the  beginning,  so  he  was  now,  a  man  without 
theories  but  with  an  instinctive  comprehension  of  boys. 
In  consequence  there  were  no  vacancies  in  his  house, 
and  the  Headmaster  had  grown  accustomed  to  recom- 
mend the  Rev.  Mr.  Arthur  Pollard  when  boys  who 
needed  any  special  care  came  to  the  school. 

He  was  now  so  engrossed  with  the  preparations  for 

58 


A  LONG  WALK 

the  term  which  was  to  begin  to-morrow  that  for  some 
while  the  footsteps  overhead  did  not  attract  his  attention. 
When  he  did  hear  them  he  just  Hfted  his  head,  Hstened 
for  a  moment  or  two,  lit  his  pipe  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

But  the  sounds  continued.  Backwards  and  forwards 
from  the  fireplace  to  the  door,  the  footsteps  came  and 
went — without  haste  and  without  cessation;  stealthily 
regular;  inhumanly  light.  Their  very  monotony  helped 
them  to  pass  as  unnoticed  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 
Mr.  Pollard  continued  the  preparation  of  his  class- 
work  for  a  full  hour,  and  only  when  the  dusk  was  fall- 
ing, and  it  was  becoming  difficult  for  him  to  see  what 
he  was  writing,  did  he  lean  back  in  his  chair  and  stretch 
his  arms  above  his  head  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Then  once  more  he  became  aware  of  the  footsteps 
overhead.     He  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Who  is  that  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room,  Evans?"  he  asked  of  the  butler. 

The  butler  threw  back  his  head  and  listened. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  replied. 

"Those  footsteps  have  been  sounding  like  that  for 
more  than  an  hour." 

"For  more  than  an  hour  ?"  Evans  repeated.  "Then 
I  am  afraid,  sir,  it's  the  new  young  gentleman  from 
India." 

Arthur  Pollard  started. 

"Has   he    been    waiting    up    there    alone    all    this 

59 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

time?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  in  the  world  wasn't  I 
told?" 

"You  were  told,  sir,"  said  Evans  firmly  but  respect- 
fully. "I  came  into  the  study  here  and  told  you,  and 
you  answered  '  All  right,  Evans.'  But  I  had  my  doubts, 
sir,  whether  you  really  heard  or  not." 

Mr.  Pollard  hardly  waited  for  the  end  of  the  expla- 
nation. He  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  sprang  up  the 
stairs.  He  had  arranged  purposely  for  the  young  Prince 
to  come  to  the  house  a  day  before  term  began.  He  was 
likely  to  be  shy,  ill-at-ease  and  homesick,  among  so 
many  strange  faces  and  unfamiliar  ways.  Moreover, 
Mr.  Pollard  wished  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
the  boy  than  would  be  easily  possible  once  the  term  was 
in  full  swing.  For  he  was  something  more  of  an 
experiment  than  the  ordinary  Indian  princeling  from 
a  State  well  under  the  thumb  of  the  Viceroy  and  the 
Indian  Council.  This  boy  came  of  the  fighting  stock 
in  the  north.  To  leave  him  tramping  about  a  strange 
drawing-room  alone  for  over  an  hour  was  not  the 
best  possible  introduction  to  English  ways  and  En- 
glish life.  Mr.  Pollard  opened  the  door  and  saw  a 
slim,  tall  boy,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  walking  up  and  down  in  the 
gloom. 

"Shere  Ali,"  he  said,  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  The 
boy  took  it  shyly. 

"You  have  been  waiting  here  for  some  time,"  Mr. 

60 


A  LONG  WALK 

Pollard  continued,  "I  am  sorry.     I  did  not  know  that 
you  had  come.     You  should  have  rung  the  bell." 

"  I  was  not  lonely,"  Shere  Ali  repHed.  "  I  was  taking 
a  walk." 

"Yes,  so  I  gathered/^  said  the  master  with  a  smile. 
"Rather   a   long   walk." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  boy  answered  seriously.  "I  was 
walking  from  Kohara  up  the  valley,  and  remembering 
the  landmarks  as  I  went.  I  had  walked  a  long  way. 
I  had  come  to  the  fort  where  my  father  was  besieged." 

"Yes,  that  reminds  me,"  said  Pollard,  "you  won't 
feel  so  lonely  to-morrow  as  you  do  to-day.  There  is  a 
new  boy  joining  whose  father  was  a  great  friend  of  your 
father's.  Richard  Linforth  is  his  name.  Very  likely 
your  father  has  mentioned  that  name  to  you." 

Mr.  Pollard  switched  on  the  light  as  he  spoke  and 
saw  Shere  Ali's  face  flash  with  eagerness. 

"Oh  yes!"  he  answered,  "I  know.  He  was  killed 
upon  the  road  by  my  uncle's  people." 

"I  have  put  you  into  the  next  room  to  his.  If  you 
will  come  with  me  I  will  show  you." 

IVlr.  Pollard  led  the  way  along  a  passage  into  the 
boys'  quarters. 

"This  is  your  room.  There's  your  bed.  Here's 
your  'burry,'  pointing  to  a  bureau  with  a  bookcase  on 
the  top.  He  threw  open  the  next  door.  "This  is  Lin- 
forth's  room.  By  the  way,  you  speak  English  very 
well." 

61 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Yes,"  said  Shere  Ali.  "I  was  taught  it  in  Lahore 
first  of  all.     My  father  is  very  fond  of  the  English." 

"Well,  come  along,"  said  Mr.  Pollard.  "I  expect 
my  wife  has  come  back  and  she  shall  give  us  some  tea. 
You  will  dine  with  us  to-night,  and  we  will  try  to  make 
you  as  fond  of  the  English  as  your  father  is. 

The  next  day  the  rest  of  the  boys  arrived,  and  Mr. 
Pollard  took  the  occasion  to  speak  a  word  or  two  to 
young  Linforth. 

"  You  are  both  new  boys,"  he  said,  "  but  you  will  fit 
into  the  scheme  of  things  quickly  enough.  He  won't. 
He's  in  a  strange  land,  among  strange  people.  So  just 
do  what  you  can  to  help  him." 

Dick  Linforth  was  curious  enough  to  see  the  son  of 
the  Khan  of  Chiltistan.  But  not  for  anything  would  he 
have  talked  to  him  of  his  father  who  had  died  upon  the 
road,  or  of  the  road  itself.  These  things  were  sacred. 
He  greeted  his  companion  in  quite  another  way. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Shere  Ali,"  replied  the  young  Prince. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Linforth,  and  he  contemplated 
the  boy  solemnly.  "I  shall  call  you  Sherry-Face,"  he 
said. 

And  "Sherry-Face"  the  heir  to  Chiltistan  remained; 
and  in  due  time  the  name  followed  him  to  College. 


62 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN   THE   DAUPHINE 

The  day  broke  tardily  among  the  mountains  of  Dau- 
phine.  At  half-past  three  on  a  morning  of  early  Au- 
gust light  should  be  already  stealing  through  the  little 
window  and  the  chinks  into  the  hut  upon  the  Meije. 
But  the  four  men  who  lay  wrapped  in  blankets  on  the 
long  broad  shelf  still  slept  in  darkness.  And  when  the 
darkness  was  broken  it  was  by  the  sudden  spirt  of  a 
match.  The  tiny  blue  flame  spluttered  for  a  few  sec- 
onds and  then  burned  bright  and  yellow.  It  lit  up  the 
face  of  a  man  bending  over  the  dial  of  a  watch  and  above 
him  and  about  him  the  wooden  rafters  and  walls  came 
dimly  into  view.  The  face  was  stout  and  burned  by 
the  sun  to  the  colour  of  a  ripe  apple,  and  in  spite  of 
a  black  heavy  moustache  had  a  merry  and  good-hu- 
moured look.  Little  gold  earrings  twinkled  in  his  ears 
by  the  light  of  the  match.  Annoyance  clouded  his  face 
as  he  remarked  the  time. 

"Verdammtl     Verdammt!"  he  muttered. 

The  match  burned  out,  and  for  a  while  he  listened  to 
the  wind  wailing  about  the  hut,  plucking  at  the  door 
and  the  shutters  of  the  window.  He  climbed  down 
from  the  shelf  with  a  rustle  of  straw,  walked  lightly  for 

63 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

a  moment  or  two  about  the  hut,  and  then  pulled  open 
the  door  quickly.     As  quickly  he  shut  it  again. 

From  the  shelf  Linforth  spoke: 

"It  is  bad,  Peter?" 

"It  is  impossible,"  replied  Peter  in  English  with  a 
strong  German  accent.  For  the  last  three  years  he 
and  his  brother  had  acted  as  guides  to  the  same  two 
men  who  were  now  in  the  Meije  hut.  "  We  are  a  strong 
party,  but  it  is  impossible.  Before  I  could  walk  a  yard 
from  the  door,  I  would  have  to  lend  a  lantern.  And 
it  is  after  four  o'clock!  The  water  is  frozen  in  the  pail, 
and  I  have  never  known  that  before  in  August." 

"Very  well,"  said  Linforth,  turning  over  in  his 
blankets.  It  was  warm  among  the  blankets  and  the 
straw,  and  he  spoke  with  contentment.  Later  in  the 
day  he  might  rail  against  the  weather.  But  for  the 
moment  he  was  very  clear  that  there  were  worse  things 
in  the  world  than  to  lie  snug  and  hear  the  wind  tearing 
about  the  cliffs  and  know  that  there  was  no  chance  of 
facing  it. 

"  We  will  not  go  back  to  La  B^rarde,"  he  said.  "  The 
storm  may  clear.  We  will  wait  in  the  hut  until  to- 
morrow." 

And  from  a  third  figure  on  the  shelf  there  came  in 
guttural  English: 

"Yes,  yes.     Of  course." 

The  fourth  man  had  not  wakened  from  his  sleep,  and 
it  was  not  until  he  was  shaken  by  the  shoulder  at  ten 

64 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

o'clock  in  the  morning  that  he  sat  up  and  rubbed  his 
eyes. 

The  fourth  man  was  Shere  Ali. 

*'  Get  up  and  come  outside,"  said  Linforth. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  Shere  AH  had  taken  his 
long  walk  from  Kohara  up  the  valley  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  his  house-master  at  Eton.  And  those  ten 
years  had  had  their  due  effect.  He  betrayed  his  race 
nowadays  by  little  more  than  his  colour,  a  certain  high- 
pitched  intonation  of  his  voice  and  an  extraordinary 
skill  in  the  game  of  polo.  There  had  been  a  time  of 
revolt  against  discipline,  of  inability  to  understand 
the  points  of  view  of  his  masters  and  their  companions, 
and  of  difficulty  to  discover  much  sense  in  their  insti- 
tutions. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  he  came  from  the  hill- 
country,  not  from  the  plains  of  India.  That  honour 
was  a  principle,  not  a  matter  of  circumstance,  and  that 
treachery  was  in  itself  disgraceful,  whether  it  was  profit- 
able or  not — here  were  hard  sayings  for  a  native  of 
Chiltistan.  He  could  look  back  upon  the  day  when 
he  had  thought  a  public-house  with  a  great  gilt  sign  or 
the  picture  of  an  animal  over  the  door  a  temple  for  some 
particular  sect  of  worshippers. 

^'And,  indeed,  you  are  far  from  wrong,"  his  tutor 
had  replied  to  him.  ^'But  since  we  do  not  worship 
at  that  fiery   shrine   such   holy  places   are   forbidden 


US," 


65 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Gradually,  however,  his  own  character  was  overlaid; 
he  was  quick  to  learn,  and  in  games  quick  to  excel.  He 
made  friends  amongst  his  schoolmates,  he  carried  with 
him  to  Oxford  the  charm  of  manner  which  is  Eton's 
particular  gift,  and  from  Oxford  he  passed  to  London. 
He  was  rich,  he  was  liked,  and  he  found  a  ready  welcome, 
which  did  not  spoil  him.  Luffe  would  undoubtedly 
have  classed  him  amongst  the  best  of  the  native  Princes 
who  go  to  England  for  their  training,  and  on  that  very 
account,  would  have  feared  the  more  for  his  future. 
Shere  Ali  was  now  just  twenty-four,  he  was  tall,  spare 
of  body  and  wonderfully  supple  of  limbs,  and  but  for 
a  fulness  of  the  lower  lip,  which  was  characteristic  of  his 
family,  would  have  been  reckoned  more  than  usually 
handsome. 

He  came  out  of  the  door  of  the  hut  and  stood  by  the 
side  of  Linforth.  They  looked  up  towards  the  Meije, 
but  little  of  that  majestic  mass  of  rock  was  visible. 
The  clouds  hung  low;  the  glacier  below  them  upon  their 
left  had  a  dull  and  unillumined  look,  and  over  the  top 
of  the  Breche  de  la  Meije,  the  pass  to  the  left  of  their 
mountain,  the  snow  whirled  up  from  the  further  side 
like  smoke.  The  hut  is  built  upon  a  great  spur  of  the 
mountain  which  runs  down  into  the  desolate  valley 
des  Etan9ons,  and  at  its  upper  end  melts  into  the  great 
precipitous  rock-wall  which  forms  one  of  the  main 
difficulties  of  the  ascent.  Against  this  wall  the  clouds 
were  massed.     Snow  lay  where  yesterday  the  rocks  had 

66 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

shone  grey  and  ruddy  brown  In  the  sunhght,  and  against 
the  great  wall  here  and  there  icicles  were  hung. 

"It  looks  unpromising/'  said  Linforth.  "But  Peter 
says  that  the  mountain  is  in  good  condition.  To- 
morrow it  may  be  possible.  It  is  worth  while  waiting. 
We  shall  get  down  to  La  Grave  to-morrow  instead  of 
to-day.     That  is  all." 

"Yes.  It  will  make,  no  difference  to  our  plans," 
said  Shere  Ali;  and  so  far  as  their  immediate  plans  were 
concerned  Shere  Ali  was  right.  But  these  two  men 
had  other  and  wider  plans  which  embraced  not  a  sum- 
mer's holiday  but  a  lifetime,  plans  which  they  jealously 
kept  secret;  and  these  plans,  as  it  happened,  the 
delay  of  a  day  in  the  hut  upon  the  Meije  was  deeply 
to  affect. 

They  turned  back  into  the  room  and  breakfasted. 
Then  Linforth  lit  his  pipe  and  once  more  curled  him- 
self up  in  his  rug  upon  the  straw.  Shere  Ali  followed 
his  example.  And  it  was  of  the  wider  plans  that  they 
at  once  began  to  talk. 

"But  heaven  only  knows  when  I  shall  get  out  to  In- 
dia," cried  Linforth  after  a  while.  "There  am  I  at 
Chatham  and  not  a  chance,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  of  getting 
away.     You  will  go  back  first." 

It  was  significant  that  Linforth,  who  had  never  been 
in  India,  none  the  less  spoke  habitually  of  going  back 
to  it,  as  though  that  country  in  truth  was  his  native  soil. 
Shere  Ali  shook  his  head. 

67 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"I  shall  wait  for  you,"  he  said.  "You  will  come 
out  there."  He  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow  and 
glanced  at  his  friend's  face.  Linforth  had  retained 
the  delicacy  of  feature,  the  fineness  of  outline  which  ten 
years  before  had  called  forth  the  admiration  of  Colonel 
Dewes.  But  the  ten  years  had  also  added  a  look  of 
quiet  strength.  A  man  can  hardly  live  with  a  definite 
purpose  very  near  to  his  heart  without  gaining  some 
reward  from  the  labour  of  his  thoughts.  Though  he 
speak  never  so  little,  people  will  be  aware  of  him  as 
they  are  not  aware  of  the  loudest  chatterer  in  the  room. 
Thus  it  was  with  Linforth.  He  talked  with  no  greater 
wit  than  his  companions,  he  made  no  greater  display 
of  ability,  he  never  outshone,  and  yet  not  a  few  men  were 
conscious  of  a  force  underlying  his  quietude  of  manner. 
Those  men  were  the  old  and  the  experienced;  the  un- 
observant overlooked  him  altogether. 

"  Yes,"  said  Shere  Ali,  "  since  you  want  to  come  you 
will  come." 

"I  shall  try  to  come,"  said  Linforth,  simply.  "We 
belong  to  the  Road,"  and  for  a  little  while  he  lay  silent. 
Then  in  a  low  voice  he  spoke,  quoting  from  that  page 
which  was  as  a  picture  in  his  thoughts. 

"  Over  the  passes !  Over  the  snow  passes  to  the  foot 
of  the  Hindu  Kush!" 

"Then  and  then  only  India  will  be  safe,"  the  young 
Prince  of  Chiltistan  added,  speaking  solemnly,  so  that 
the  words  seemed  a  kind  of  ritual. 

68 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

And  to  both  they  were  no  less.  Long  before,  when 
Shere  AH  was  first  brought  into  his  room,  on  his  first 
day  at  Eton,  Linforth  had  seen  his  opportunity,  and 
seized  it.  Shere  Ah^s  father  retained  his  kingdom  with 
an  Enghsh  Resident  at  his  elbow.  Shere  Ali  would 
in  due  time  succeed.  Linforth  had  quietly  put  forth 
his  powers  to  make  Shere  Ali  his  friend,  to  force  him  to 
see  with  his  eyes,  and  to  believe  what  he  believed.  And 
Shere  Ali  had  been  easily  persuaded.  He  had  become 
one  of  the  white  men,  he  proudly  told  himself.  Here 
was  a  proof,  the  surest  of  proofs.  The  belief  in  the 
Road — that  was  one  of  the  beliefs  of  the  white  men, 
one  of  the  beliefs  which  marked  him  off  from  the  native, 
not  merely  in  Chiltistan,  but  throughout  the  East. 
To  the  white  man,  the  Road  was  the  beginnmg  of  things, 
to  the  Oriental  the  shadow  of  the  end.  Shere  Ali  sided 
with  the  white  men.  He  too  had  faith  in  the  Road 
and  he  was  proud  of  his  faith  because  he  shared  it  with 
the  white  men. 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  of  these  expeditions,  some 
day,  in  Chiltistan,"  said  Linforth. 

Shere  Ali  stared. 

"It  was  for  that  reason ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

Shere  Ali  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  he  said,  and 
with  some  regret: 

"There  is  a  great  difference  between  us.  You  can 
wait  and  wait.     I  want  everything  done  within  the  year." 

69 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Linforth  laughed.  He  knew  very  well  the  im- 
pulsiveness of  his  friend. 

"If  a  few  miles,  or  even  a  few  furlongs,  stand  to 
my  credit  at  the  end,  I  shall  not  think  that  I  have 
failed." 

They  were  both  young,  and  they  talked  with  the  bright 
and  simple  faith  in  their  ideals  which  is  the  great  gift 
of  youth.  An  older  man  might  have  laughed  if  he  had 
heard,  but  had  there  been  an  older  man  in  the  hut  to 
overhear  them,  he  would  have  heard  nothing.  They 
were  alone,  save  for  their  guides,  and  the  single  purpose 
for  which — as  they  then  thought — their  lives  were  to 
be  lived  out  made  that  long  day  short  as  a  summer's 
night. 

"The  Government  will  thank  us  when  the  work  is 
done,"  said  Shere  Ali  enthusiastically. 

"The  Government  will  be  in  no  hurry  to  let  us  be- 
gin," replied  Linforth  drily.  "There  is  a  Resident  at 
your  father's  court.  Your  father  is  willing,  and  yet 
there's  not  a  coolie  on  the  road.  " 

"Yes,  but  you  will  get  your  way,"  and  again  confi- 
dence rang  in  the  voice  of  the  Chilti  prince. 

"It  will  not  be  I,"  answered  Linforth.  "It  will  be 
the  Road.  The  power  of  the  Road  is  beyond  the  power 
of  any  Government." 

"Yes,  I  remember  and  I  understand."  Shere  Ali 
lit  his  pipe  and  lay  back  among  the  straw.  "At  first 
I  did  not  understand  what  the  words  meant.     Now  I 

70 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

know.     The  power  of  the  Road  is  great,  because  it  in- 
spires men  to  strive  for  its  completion." 

"Or  its  mastery,"  said  Linforth  slowly.  "Perhaps 
one  day  on  the  other  side  of  the  Hindu  Kush,  the 
Russians  may  covet  it — and  then  the  Road  will  go  on 
to  meet  them." 

"Something  will  happen,"  said  Shere  Ali.  "At  all 
events  something  will  happen." 

The  shadows  of  the  evening  found  them  still  debating 
what  complication  might  force  the  hand  of  those  in 
authority.  But  always  they  came  back  to  the  Russians 
and  a  movement  of  troops  in  the  Pamirs.  Yet  un- 
known to  both  of  them  the  something  else  had  already 
happened,  though  its  consequences  were  not  yet  to  be 
foreseen.  A  storm  had  delayed  them  for  a  day  in  a  hut 
upon  the  Meije.  They  went  out  of  the  hut.  The  sky 
had  cleared;  and  in  the  sunset  the  steep  buttress  of  the 
Promontoire  ran  sharply  up  to  the  Great  Wall;  above 
the  wall  the  small  square  patch  of  ice  sloped  to  the  base 
of  the  Grand  Pic  and  beyond  the  deep  gap  behind  that 
pinnacle  the  long  serrated  ridge  ran  out  to  the  right, 
rising  and  falling,  to  the  Doight  de  Dieu. 

There  were  some  heavy  icicles  overhanging  the  Great 
Wall,  and  Linforth  looked  at  them  anxiously.  There 
was  also  still  a  little  snow  upon  the  rocks. 

"It  will  be  possible,"  said  Peter,  cheerily.  "To- 
morrow night  we  shall  sleep  in  La  Grave." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  his  brother. 

71 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

They  walked  round  the  hut,  looked  for  a  little  while 
down  the  stony  valley  des  Etan9ons,  with  its  one  green 
patch  up  which  they  had  toiled  from  La  Berarde  the 
day  before,  and  returned  to  watch  the  purple  flush  of 
the  sunset  die  off  the  crags  of  the  Meije.  But  the  future 
they  had  planned  was  as  a  vision  before  their  eyes,  and 
even  along  the  high  cliffs  of  the  Dauphine  the  road  they 
were  to  make  seemed  to  wind  and  climb. 

"It  would  be  strange,"  said  Linforth,  "if  old  Andrew 
Linforth  were  still  alive.  Somewhere  in  your  country, 
perhaps  in  Kohara,  waiting  for  the  thing  he  dreamed 
to  come  to  pass.  He  would  be  an  old  man  now,  but 
he  might  still  be  alive." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Shere  Ali  absently,  and  he  sud- 
denly turned  to  Linforth.  "Nothing  must  come  be- 
tween us,"  he  cried  almost  fiercely.  "Nothing  to 
hinder  what  we  shall  do  together." 

He  was  the  more  emotional  of  the  two.  The  dreams 
to  which  they  had  given  utterance  had  uplifted  him. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Linforth,  and  he  turned  back 
into  the  hut.  But  he  remembered  afterwards  that  it 
was  Shere  Ali  who  had  protested  against  the  possi- 
bility of  their  association  being  broken. 

They  came  out  from  the  hut  again  at  half-past  three 
in  the  morning  and  looked  up  to  a  cloudless  starlit  sky 
which  faded  in  the  east  to  the  colour  of  pearl.  Above 
their  heads  some  knobs  of  rock  stood  out  upon  the  thin 
crest  of  the  buttress  against  the  sky.     In  the  darkness 

72 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

of  a  small  couloir  underneath  the  knobs  Peter  was  al- 
ready ascending.  The  traverse  of  the  Meije  even  for 
an  experienced  mountaineer  is  a  long  day's  climb. 
They  reached  the  summit  of  the  Grand  Pic  in  seven 
hours,  descended  into  the  Breche  Zsigmondy,  climbed 
up  the  precipice  on  the  further  side  of  that  gap,  and 
reached  the  Pic  Central  by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
There  they  rested  for  an  hour,  and  looked  far  down  to 
the  village  of  La  Grave  among  the  cornfields  of  the  val- 
ley.    There  was  no  reason  for  any  hurry. 

"We  shall  reach  La  Grave  by  eight,"  said  Peter, 
but  he  was  wrong,  as  they  soon  discovered.  A  slope 
which  should  have  been  soft  snow  down  which  they 
could  plunge  was  hard  ice,  in  which  a  ladder  of  steps 
must  be  cut  before  the  glacier  could  be  reached.  The 
glacier  itself  was  crevassed  so  that  many  a  detour  was 
necessary,  and  occasionally  a  jump;  and  evening  came 
upon  them  while  they  were  on  the  Rocher  de  TAigle. 
It  was  quite  dark  when  at  last  they  reached  the  grass 
slopes,  and  still  far  below  them  the  lights  were  gleam- 
ing in  La  Grave.  To  both  men  those  grass  slopes 
seemed  interminable.  The  lights  of  La  Grave  seemed 
never  to  come  nearer,  never  to  grow  larger.  Little 
points  of  fire  very  far  away — as  they  had  been  at  first, 
so  they  remained.  But  for  the  slope  of  ground  beneath 
his  feet  and  the  aching  of  his  knees,  Linforth  could  al- 
most have  believed  that  they  were  not  descending  at 
all.     He  struck  a  match  and  looked  at  his  watch  and 

73 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

saw  that  it  was  after  nine;  and  a  little  while  after  they 
had  come  to  water  and  taken  their  fill  of  it,  that  it  was 
nearly  ten,  but  now  the  low  thunder  of  the  river 
in  the  valley  was  louder  in  his  ears,  and  then  suddenly 
he  saw  that  the  lights  of  La  Grave  were  bright  and  near 
at  hand. 

Linforth  flung  himself  down  upon  the  grass,  and 
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head,  gave  himself  up 
to  the  cool  of  the  night  and  the  stars  overhead. 

"I  could  sleep  here,"  he  said.  "Why  should  we  go 
down  to  La  Grave  to-night  ?'* 

"There  is  a  dew  falling.  It  will  be  cold  when  the 
morning  breaks.  And  La  Grave  is  very  near.  It  is 
better  to  go,"  said  Peter. 

The  question  was  still  in  debate  when  above  the  roar 
of  the  river  there  came  to  their  ears  a  faint  throbbing 
sound  from  across  the  valley.  It  grew  louder  and 
suddenly  two  blinding  lights  flashed  along  the  hill-side 
opposite. 

"A  motor-car,"  said  Shere  Ali,  and  as  he  spoke  the 
lights  ceased  to  travel. 

"It's  stopping  at  the  hotel,"  said  Linforth  carelessly. 

"No,"  said  Peter.  "It  has  not  reached  the  hotel. 
Look,  not  by  a  hundred  yards.     It  has  broken  down." 

Linforth  discussed  the  point  at  length,  not  because 
he  was  at  all  interested  at  the  moment  in  the  move- 
ments of  that  or  of  any  other  motor-car,  but  because  he 
wished  to  stay  where  he  was.     Peter,  however,  was  ob- 

74 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

durate.  It  was  his  pride  to  get  his  patron  indoors  each 
night. 

"Let  us  go  on,"  he  said,  and  Linforth  wearily  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"We  are  making  a  big  mistake,"  he  grumbled,  and 
he  spoke  with  more  truth  than  he  was  aware. 

They  reached  the  hotel  at  eleven,  ordered  their  sup- 
per and  bathed.  It  was  half-past  eleven  before  Linforth 
and  Shere  Ali  entered  the  long  dining-room,  and  they 
found  another  party  already  supping  there.  Linforth 
heard  himself  greeted  by  name,  and  turned  in  surprise. 
It  was  a  party  of  four — two  ladies  and  two  men.  One 
of  the  men  had  called  to  him,  an  elderly  man  with  a 
bald  forehead,  a  grizzled  moustache,  and  a  shrewd 
kindly  face. 

"I  remember  you,  though  you  can't  say  as  much  of 
me,"  he  said.  "I  came  down  to  Chatham  a  year  ago 
and  dined  at  your  mess  as  the  guest  of  your  Colonel." 

Linforth  came  forward  with  a  smile  of  recognition. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  not  recognising  you  at  once. 
I  remember  you,  of  course,  quite  well,"  he  said. 

"Who  am  I,  then?" 

"Sir  John  Casson,  late  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
United  Provinces,"  said  Linforth  promptly. 

"And  now  nothing  but  a  bore  at  my  club,"  replied 
Sir  John  cheerfully.  "We  were  motoring  through  to 
Grenoble,  but  the  car  has  broken  down.  You  are 
mountain-climbing,  I  suppose.     Phyllis,"  and  he  turned 

75 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

to  the  younger  of  the  two  ladies,  "  this  is  Mr.  Linforth 
of  the  Royal  Engineers.  My  daughter,  Linforth!" 
He  introduced  the  second  lady. 

"Mrs.  Oliver,"  he  said,  and  Linforth  turning,  saw 
that  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Oliver  were  already  fixed  upon 
him.  He  returned  the  look,  and  his  eyes  frankly  showed 
her  that  he  thought  her  beautiful. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?"  said 
Sir  John. 

"  Go  to  the  country  from  which  you  have  just  come, 
as  soon  as  I  can,"  said  Linforth  with  a  smile.  At  this 
moment  the  fourth  of  the  party,  a  stout,  red-faced,  ple- 
thoric gentleman,  broke  in. 

"India!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly.  "Bless  my 
soul,  what  on  earth  sends  all  you  young  fellows  racing 
out  to  India  ?  A  great  mistake !  I  once  went  to  India 
myself — to  shoot  a  tiger.  I  stayed  there  for  months 
and  never  saw  one.     Not  a  tiger,  sir!" 

But  Linforth  was  paying  very  little  attention  to  the 
plethoric  gentleman.  Sir  John  introduced  him  as 
Colonel  Fitzwarren,  and  Linforth  bowed  politely. 
Then  he  asked  of  Sir  John: 

"Your  car  was  not  seriously  damaged,  I  suppose?" 

"Keep  us  here  two  days,"  said  Sir  John.  "The 
chauffeur  will  have  to  go  on  by  diligence  to-morrow 
to  get  a  new  sparking  plug.  Perhaps  we  shall  see  more 
of  you  in  consequence." 

Linforth's  eyes  travelled  back  to  Mrs.  Oliver. 

76 


IN  THE  DAUPHINE 

''We  are  in  no  hurry,"  he  said  slowly.  "We  shall 
rest  here  probably  for  a  day  or  so.  May  I  introduce 
my  friend?" 

He  introduced  him  as  the  son  of  the  Khan  of  Chiltis- 
tan,  and  Mrs.  Oliver's  eyes,  which  had  been  quietly 
resting  upon  Linforth's  face,  turned  towards  Shere  Ali, 
and  as  quietly  rested  upon  his. 

"Then,  perhaps,  you  can  tell  me,"  said  Colonel 
Fitzwarren,  "how  it  was  I  never  saw  a  tiger  in  India, 
though  I  stayed  there  four  months.  A  most  disap- 
pointing country,  I  call  it.  I  looked  for  a  tiger  every- 
where and  I  never  saw  one — no,  not  one." 

The  Colonel's  one  idea  of  the  Indian  Peninsula  was 
a  huge  tiger  waiting  somewhere  in  a  jungle  to  be  shot. 

But  Shere  Ali  was  paying  no  more  attention  to  the 
Colonel's  disparagements  than  Linforth  had  done. 

"Will  you  join  us  at  supper?"  said  Sir  John,  and 
both  young  men  replied  simultaneously,  "We  shall 
be  very  pleased." 

Sir  John  Casson  smiled.  He  could  never  quite  be 
sure  whether  it  was  or  was  not  to  Mrs.  Oliver's  credit 
that  her  looks  made  so  powerful  an  appeal  to  the  chiv- 
alry of  young  men.  "  All  young  men  immediately  want 
to  protect  her,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "and  their  trouble 
is  that  they  can't  find  anyone  to  protect  her  from." 

He  watched  Shere  Ali  and  Dick  Linforth  with  a  sly 
amusement,  and  as  a  result  of  his  watching  promised 
himself  yet  more  amusement  during  the  next  two  days. 

77 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

He  was  roused  from  this  pleasing  anticipation  by  his 
irascible  friend,  Colonel  Fitzwarren,  who,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  flung  a  loud  and  defiant  challenge 
across  the  table  to  Shere  Ali. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  one,"  he  cried,  and  breathed 
heavily. 

Shere  Ali  interrupted  his  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Oliver.     "One  what?"  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"Tiger,  sir,  tiger,"  said  the  Colonel,  rapping  with  his 
knuckles  upon  the  table.  "Of  what  else  should  I  be 
speaking?  I  don't  believe  there's  a  tiger  in  India 
outside  the  Zoo.     Otherwise,  why  didn't  I  see  one?" 

Colonel  Fitzwarren  glared  at  Shere  Ali  as  though  he 
held  him  personally  responsible  for  that  unhappy 
omission.  Sir  John,  however,  intervened  with  smooth 
speeches  and  for  the  rest  of  supper  the  conversa- 
tion was  kept  to  less  painful  topics.  But  the  Colonel 
had  not  said  his  last  word.  As  they  went  upstairs  to 
their  rooms  he  turned  to  Shere  Ali,  who  was  just  behind 
him,  and  sighed  heavily. 

"If  I  had  shot  a  tiger  in  India,"  he  said,  with  an  in- 
describable look  of  pathos  upon  his  big  red  face,  "it 
would  have  made  a  great  difference  to  my  life." 


78 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A  STRING   OF   PEARLS 


"So  you  go  to  parties  nowadays,"  said  Mrs.  Linforth, 
and  Sir  John  Casson,  leaning  his  back  against  the  wall 
of  the  ball-room,  puzzled  his  brains  for  the  name  of  the 
lady  with  the  pleasant  winning  face  to  whom  he  had 
just  been  introduced.  At  first  it  had  seemed  to  him 
merely  that  her  hearing  was  better  than  his.  The 
"nowadays,"  however,  showed  that  it  was  her  memory 
which  had  the  advantage.  They  were  apparently  old 
acquaintances;  and  Sir  John  belonged  to  an  old-fash- 
ioned school  which  thought  it  discourtesy  to  forget  even 
the  least  memorable  of  his  acquaintances. 

"  You  were  not  so  easily  persuaded  to  decorate  a  ball- 
room at  Mussoorie,"  Mrs.  Linforth  continued. 

Sir  John  smiled,  and  there  was  a  little  bitterness  in 
the  smile. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  hint,  too,  of  bitter- 
ness in  his  voice,  "I  was  wanted  to  decorate  ball- 
rooms then.  So  I  didn't  go.  Now  I  am  not  wanted. 
So  I  do." 

"That's  not  the  true  explanation,"  Mrs.  Linforth 
said  gently,  and  she  shook  her  head.  She  spoke  so 
gently  and  with  so  clear  a  note  of  sympathy  and  com- 

79 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

prehension  that  Sir  John  was  at  more  pains  than  ever 
to  discover  who  she  was.  To  hardly  anyone  would  it 
naturally  have  occurred  that  Sir  John  Casson,  with  a 
tail  of  letters  to  his  name,  and  a  handsome  pension,  en- 
joyed at  an  age  when  his  faculties  were  alert  and  his 
bodily  strength  not  yet  diminished,  could  stand  in  need 
of  sympathy.  But  that  precisely  was  the  fact,  as  the 
woman  at  his  side  understood.  A  great  ruler  yester- 
day, with  a  council  and  an  organized  Government, 
subordinated  to  his  leadership,  he  now  merely  lived  at 
Camberley,  and  as  he  had  confessed,  was  a  bore  at  his 
club.     And  life  at  Camberley  was  dull. 

He  looked  closely  at  Mrs.  Linforth.  She  was  a 
woman  of  forty,  or  perhaps  a  year  or  two  more.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  might  be  a  year  or  two  less.  She 
had  the  figure  of  a  young  woman,  and  though  her  dark 
hair  was  flecked  with  grey,  he  knew  that  was  not  to  be 
accounted  as  a  sign  of  either  age  or  trouble.  Yet  she 
looked  as  if  trouble  had  been  no  stranger  to  her.  There 
were  little  lines  about  the  eyes  which  told  their  tale  to  a 
shrewd  observer,  though  the  face  smiled  never  so  pleas- 
antly. In  what  summer,  he  wondered,  had  she  come 
up  to  the  hill  station  of  Mussoorie. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  did  not  give  you  the  real  explana- 
tion.    Now  I  will." 

He  nodded  towards  a  girl  who  was  at  that  moment 
crossing  the  ball-room  towards  the  door,  upon  the  arm 
of  a  young  man. 

80 


A  STRING  OF  PEAllLS 

"That's  the  explanation." 

Mrs.  Linforth  looked  at  the  girl  and  smiled. 

"The  explanation  seems  to  be  enjoying  itself,"  she 
said.     "Yours?" 

"Mine,"  replied  Sir  John  with  evident  pride. 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  said  Mrs.  Linforth,  and  the 
sincerity  of  her  admiration  made  the  father  glow  with 
satisfaction.  Phyllis  Casson  was  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
with  the  fresh  looks  and  the  clear  eyes  of  her  years. 
A  bright  colour  graced  her  cheeks,  where,  when  she 
laughed,  the  dimples  played,  and  the  white  dress  she 
wore  was  matched  by  the  whiteness  of  her  throat.  She 
was  talking  gaily  with  the  youth  on  whose  arm  her  hand 
lightly  rested. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Linforth. 

Sir  John  raised  his.  shoulders. 

"I  am  not  concerned,"  he  replied.  "The  explana- 
tion is  amusing  itself,  as  it  ought  to  do,  being  only  eigh- 
teen. The  explanation  wants  everyone  to  love  her  at 
the  present  moment.  When  she  wants  only  one,  then 
it  will  be  time  for  me  to  begin  to  get  flurried."  He 
turned  abruptly  to  his  companion.  "  I  would  like  you 
to  know  her." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Linforth,  as  she  bowed  to 
an  acquaintance. 

"Would  you  like  to  dance?"  asked  Sir  John.  "If 
so,  I'll  stand  aside." 

"No.     I    came   here    to   look   on,"   she   explained. 

81 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"  Lady  Marfield,"  and  she  nodded  towards  their  host- 
ess, "is  my  cousin,  and — well,  I  don't  want  to  grow 
rusty.  You  see  I  have  an  explanation  too — oh,  not 
here!     He's  at  Chatham,  and  it's  as  well  to  keep  up 

with  the  world "     She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  with 

a  perceptible  start  of  surprise.  She  was  looking  tow- 
ards the  door.  Casson  followed  the  direction  of  her 
eyes,  and  saw  young  Linforth  in  the  doorway. 

At  last  he  remembered.  There  had  been  one  hot 
weather,  years  ago,  when  this  boy's  father  and  his 
newly-married  wife  had  come  up  to  the  hill-station  of 
Mussoorie.  He  remembered  that  Linforth  had  sent 
his  wife  back  to  England,  when  he  went  North  into 
Chiltistan  on  that  work  from  which  he  was  never  to 
return.     It  was  the  wife  w^ho  was  now  at  his  side. 

"I  thought  you  said  he  was  at  Chatham,"  said  Sir 
John,  as  Dick  Linforth  advanced  into  the  room. 

"So  I  believed  he  was.  He  must  have  changed  his 
mind  at  the  last  moment."  Then  she  looked  with  a 
little  surprise  at  her  companion.     "You  know  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  John,  "I  will  tell  you  how  it  hap- 
pened. I  was  dining  eighteen  months  ago  at  the  Sap- 
pers' mess  at  Chatham.  And  that  boy's  face  came  out 
of  the  crowd  and  took  my  eyes  and  my  imagination 
too.  You  know,  perhaps,  how  that  happens  at  times. 
There  seems  to  be  no  particular  reason  why  it  should 
happen  at  the  moment.  Afterwards  you  realise  that 
there  was  very  good  reason.     A  great  career,  perhaps, 

82 


A  STRING  OF  PEARLS 

perhaps  only  some  one  signal  act,  an  act  typical  of  a 
whole  unknown  life,  leaps  to  light  and  justifies  the  claim 
the  young  face  made  upon  your  sympathy.  Anyhow, 
I  noticed  young  Linforth.  It  was  not  his  good  looks 
which  attracted  me.  There  was  something  else.  I 
made  inquiries.  The  Colonel  was  not  a  very  observ- 
ant man.  Linforth  was  one  of  the  subalterns — a  good 
bat  and  a  good  change  bowler.  That  was  all.  Only 
I  happened  to  look  round  the  walls  of  the  Sappers' 
mess.  There  are  portraits  hung  there  of  famous  mem- 
bers of  that  mess  who  were  thought  of  no  particular 
account  when  they  were  subalterns  at  Chatham. 
There's  one  alive  to-day.     Another  died  at  Khartoum." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Linforth. 

"Well,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  your  son  that 
night,"  said  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Linforth  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  her  face 
for  the  moment  quite  beautiful.  Then  she  broke  into 
a  laugh. 

"I  am  glad  I  scratched  your  back  first,"  she  said. 
"And  as  for  the  cricket,  it's  quite  true.  I  taught  him 
to  keep  a  straight  bat  myself." 

Meanwhile,  Dick  Linforth  was  walking  across  the 
floor  of  the  ball-room,  quite  unconscious  of  the  two  who 
talked  of  him.  He  was  not,  indeed,  looking  about  him 
at  all.  It  seemed  to  both  his  mother  and  Sir  John,  as 
they  watched  him  steadily  moving  in  and  out  amongst 
the  throng — for  it  was  the  height  of  the  season,  and 

83 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Lady  Marfield's  big  drawing-room  in  Chesterfield 
Gardens  was  crowded — that  he  was  making  his  way  to 
a  definite  spot,  as  though  just  at  this  moment  he  had  a 
definite  appointment. 

"He  changed  his  mind  at  the  last  moment,"  said 
Sir  John  with  a  laugh,  which  gave  to  him  the  look  of 
a  boy.  "  Let  us  see  who  it  is  that  has  brought  him  up 
from  Chatham  to  London  at  the  last  moment!" 

"Would  it  be  fair?"  asked  Mrs.  Linforth  reluctantly. 
She  was,  indeed,  no  less  curious  upon  the  point  than  her 
companion,  and  while  she  asked  the  question,  her  eyes 
followed  her  son's  movements.  He  was  tall,  and  though 
he  moved  quickly  and  easily,  it  was  possible  to  keep 
him  in  view. 

A  gap  in  the  crowd  opened  before  them,  making  a 
lane — and  at  the  end  of  the  lane  they  saw  Linforth  ap- 
proach a  lady  and  receive  the  welcome  of  her  smile. 
For  a  moment  the  gap  remained  open,  and  then  the 
bright  frocks  and  black  coats  swept  across  the  space. 
But  both  had  seen,  and  Mrs.  Linforth,  in  addition,  was 
aware  of  a  barely  perceptible  start  made  by  Sir  John  at 
her  side. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  His  face  had  grown 
grave. 

"You  know  her?"  asked  Mrs.  Linforth.  There  was 
anxiety  in  her  voice.     There  was  also  a  note  of  jealousy. 

"Yes." 

"Who  is  she?" 

84 


A  STRING  OF  PEARLS 

''Mrs.  Oliver.     Violet  Oliver." 

''Married!" 

"A  widow.  I  introduced  her  to  your  son  at  La 
Grave  in  the  Dauphine  country  last  summer.  Our 
motor-car  had  broken  down.  We  all  stayed  for  a 
couple  of  days  together  in  the  same  hotel.  Mrs.  Oliver 
is  a  friend  of  my  daughter's.  Phyllis  admires  her  very 
much,  and  in  most  instances  I  am  prepared  to  trust 
Phyllis'  instincts." 

"But  not  in  this  instance,"  said  Mrs.  Linforth 
quietly.  She  had  been  quick  to  note  a  very  slight 
embarrassment  in  Sir  John  Casson's  manner. 

"I  don't  say  that,"  he  replied  quickly — a  little  too 
quickly. 

"Will  you  find  me  a  chair?"  said  Mrs.  Linforth, 
looking  about  her.  "There  are  two  over  here."  She 
led  the  way  to  the  chairs  which  were  placed  in  a  nook 
of  the  room  not  very  far  from  the  door  by  which  Lin- 
forth had  entered.  She  took  her  seat,  and  when  Sir 
John  had  seated  himself  beside  her,  she  said: 

"Please  tell  me  what  you  know  of  her." 

Sir  John  spread  out  his  hands  in  protest. 

"Certainly,  I  will.  But  there  is  nothing  to  her  dis- 
credit, so  far  as  I  know,  Mrs.  Linforth — nothing  at  all. 
Beyond  that  she  is  beautiful — really  beautiful,  as  few 
women  are.  That,  no  doubt,  will  be  looked  upon  as 
a  crime  by  many,  though  you  and  I  will  not  be  of  that 
number." 

85 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Sybil  Linforth  maintained  a  determined  silence — not 
for  anything  would  she  admit,  even  to  herself,  that 
Violet  Oliver  was  beautiful. 

"You  are  telling  me  nothing,"  she  said. 

"There  is  so  little  to  tell,"  replied  Sir  John.  "Violet 
Oliver  comes  of  a  family  which  is  known,  though  it  is 
not  rich.  She  studied  music  with  a  view  to  making  her 
living  as  a  singer.  For  she  has  a  very  sweet  voice, 
though  its  want  of  power  forbade  grand  opera.  Her 
studies  were  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  cavalry 
captain,  who  made  love  to  her.  She  liked  it,  whereas 
she  did  not  like  studying  music.  Very  naturally  she 
married  the  cavalry  officer.  Captain  Oliver  took  her 
with  him  abroad,  and,  I  believe,  brought  her  to  India. 
At  all  events  she  knows  something  of  India,  and  has 
friends  there.  She  is  going  back  there  this  winter. 
Captain  Oliver  was  killed  in  a  hill  campaign  two  years 
ago.  Mrs.  Oliver  is  now  twenty-three  years  old.  That 
is  all." 

Mrs.  Linforth,  however,  was  not  satisfied. 

"Was  Captain  Oliver  rich?"  she  asked. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Sir  John.  "His  widow 
lives  in  a  little  house  at  the  wrong  end  of  Curzon  Street." 

"  But  she  is  wearing  to-night  very  beautiful  pearls," 
said  Sybil  Linforth  quietly. 

Sir  John  Casson  moved  suddenly  in  his  chair.  More- 
over, Sybil  Linforth's  eyes  were  at  that  moment  resting 
with  a  quiet  scrutiny  upon  his  face. 

86 


A  STRING  OF  PEARLS 

"  It  was  difficult  to  see  exactly  what  she  was  wearing," 
he  said.     ''The  gap  in  the  crowd  filled  up  so  quickly." 

"There  was  time  enough  for  any  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Linforth  with  a  smile.  ''And  more  than  time  enough 
for  any  mother." 

"  Mrs.  Oliver  is  always,  I  believe,  exquisitely  dressed," 
said  Sir  John  with  an  assumption  of  carelessness.  "I 
am  not  much  of  a  judge  myself." 

But  his  carelessness  did  not  deceive  his  companion. 
Sybil  Linforth  was  certain,  absolutely  certain,  that  the 
cause  of  the  constraint  and  embarrassment  which  had 
been  audible  in  Sir  John's  voice,  and  noticeable  in  his 
very  manner,  was  that  double  string  of  big  pearls  of 
perfect  colour  which  adorned  Violet  Oliver's  white 
throat. 

She  looked  Sir  John  straight  in  the  face. 

"Would  you  introduce  Dick  to  Mrs.  Oliver  now,  if 
you  had  not  done  it  before?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear  lady,"  protested  Sir  John,  "if  I  met  Dick 
at  a  little  hotel  in  the  Dauphine,  and  did  not  introduce 
him  to  the  ladies  who  were  travelling  with  me,  it  would 
surely  reflect  upon  Dick,  not  upon  the  ladies";  and 
with  that  subtle  evasion  Sir  John  escaped  from  the  fire 
of  questions.  He  turned  the  conversation  into  another 
channel,  pluming  himself  upon  his  cleverness.  But  he 
forgot  that  the  subtlest  evasions  of  the  male  mind  are 
clumsy  and  obvious  to  a  woman,  especially  if  the  woman 
be  on  the  alert.     Sybil  Linforth  did  not  think  Sir  John 

87 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

had  showed  any  cleverness  whatever.  She  let  him  turn 
the  conversation,  because  she  knew  what  she  had  set 
out  to  know.  That  string  of  pearls  had  made  the  dif- 
ference between  Sir  John's  estimate  of  Violet  Oliver 
last  year  and  his  estimate  of  her  this  season. 


CHAPTER  IX 


LTJFFE   IS   REMEMBERED 


Violet  Oliver  took  a  quick  step  forward  when  she 
caught  sight  of  Linforth's  tall  and  well-knit  figure 
coming  towards  her;  and  the  smile  with  which  she 
welcomed  him  was  a  warm  smile  of  genuine  pleasure. 
There  were  people  who  called  Violet  Oliver  affected — 
chiefly  ladies.  But  Phyllis  Casson  was  not  one  of 
them. 

"There  is  no  one  more  natural  in  the  room,"  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  stoutly  declaring  when  she  heard  the 
gossips  at  work,  and  we  know,  on  her  father's  author- 
ity, that  Phyllis  Casson's  judgments  were  in  most  in- 
stances to  be  respected.  Certainly  it  was  not  Violet 
Oliver's  fault  that  her  face  in  repose  took  on  a  wistful 
and  pathetic  look,  and  that  her  dark  quiet  eyes,  even 
when  her  thoughts  were  absent — and  her  thoughts  were 
often  absent — rested  pensively  upon  you  with  an  un- 
conscious flattery.  It  appeared  that  she  was  pondering 
deeply  who  and  what  you  were;  w^hereas  she  was  prob- 
ably debating  whether  she  should  or  should  not  powder 
her  nose  before  she  went  in  to  supper.  Nor  was  she 
to  blame  because  at  the  approach  of  a  friend  that  sweet 
and  thoughtful  face  would  twinkle  suddenly  into  mis- 

89 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

chief  and  amusement.     "She  is  as  God  made  her," 
PhjUis  Casson  protested,  "and  He  made  her  beautiful." 

It  will  be  recognised,  therefore,  that  there  was  truth 
in  Sir  John's  observation  that  young  men  wanted  to 
protect  her.  But  the  bald  statement  is  not  sufficient. 
Whether  that  quick  transition  from  pensiveness  to  a 
dancing  gaiety  was  the  cause,  or  whether  it  only  helped 
her  beauty,  this  is  certain.  Young  men  went  down 
before  her  like  ninepins  in  a  bowling  alley.  There  was 
something  singularly  virginal  about  her.  She  had,  too, 
quite  naturally,  an  affectionate  manner  which  it  was 
difficult  to  resist;  and  above  all  she  made  no  effort  ever. 
What  she  said  and  what  she  did  seemed  always  purely 
spontaneous.  For  the  rest,  she  was  a  little  over  the 
general  height  of  women,  and  even  looked  a  little  taller. 
For  she  was  very  fragile,  and  dainty,  like  an  exquisite 
piece  of  china.  Her  head  was  small,  and,  poised  as  it 
was  upon  a  slender  throat,  looked  almost  overweighted 
by  the  wealth  of  her  dark  hair.  Her  features  were 
finely  chiselled  from  the  nose  to  the  oval  of  her  chin, 
and  the  red  bow  of  her  lips;  and,  with  all  her  fragility, 
a  delicate  colour  in  her  cheeks  spoke  of  health. 

"You  have  come!"  she  said. 

Linforth  took  her  little  white-gloved  hand  in  his. 

"You  knew  I  should,"  he  answered. 

"Yes,  I  knew  that.  But  I  didn't  know  that  I  should 
have  to  wait,"  she  replied  reproachfully.  "I  was  here, 
in  this  corner,  at  the  moment." 

90 


LUFFE  IS  REMEMBERED 

"I  couldn't  catch  an  earlier  train.  I  only  got  your 
telegram  saying  you  would  be  at  the  dance  late  in  the 
afternoon." 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  should  be  coming  until  this 
morning,"  she  said. 

''Then  it  was  very  kind  of  you  to  send  the  telegram 
at  all." 

"Yes,  it  was,"  said  Violet  Oliver  simply,  and  Lin- 
forth  laughed. 

"Shall  we  dance?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Oliver  nodded. 

"Round  the  room  as  far  as  the  door.  I  am  hungry. 
We  will  go  downstairs  and  have  supper." 

Linforth  could  have  wished  for  nothing  better.  But 
the  moment  that  his  arm  was  about  her  waist  and  they 
had  started  for  the  door,  Violet  Oliver  realised  that  her 
partner  was  the  lightest  dancer  in  the  room.  She  her- 
self loved  dancing,  and  for  once  in  a  way  to  be  steered 
in  and  out  amongst  the  couples  without  a  bump  or  even 
a  single  entanglement  of  her  satin  train  was  a  pleasure 
not  to  be  foregone.     She  gave  herself  up  to  it. 

"Let  us  go  on,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  know.  You 
see,  we  have  never  danced  together  before.  I  had  not 
thought  of  you  in  that  way." 

She  ceased  to  speak,  being  content  to  dance.  Lin- 
forth for  his  part  was  content  to  watch  Her,  to  hold  her 
as  something  very  precious,  and  to  evoke  a  smile  upon 
her  lips  when  her  eyes  met  his.     "  I  had  not  thought  of 

91 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

you  in  that  way!"  she  had  said.  Did  not  that  mean 
that  she  had  at  all  events  been  thinking  of  him  in  some 
way  ?  And  with  that  flattery  still  sweet  in  his  thoughts, 
he  was  aware  that  her  feet  suddenly  faltered.  He 
looked  at  her  face.  It  had  changed.  Yet  so  swiftly 
did  it  recover  its  composure  that  Linforth  had  not  even 
the  time  to  understand  what  the  change  implied.  An- 
noyance, surprise,  fear!  One  of  these  feelings,  cer- 
tainly, or  perhaps  a  trifle  of  each.  Linforth  could  not 
make  sure.  There  had  been  a  flash  of  some  sudden 
emotion.  That  at  all  events  was  certain.  But  in 
guessing  fear,  he  argued,  his  wits  must  surely  have 
gone  far  astray;  though  fear  was  the  first  guess  which 
he  had  made. 

"What  was  the  matter?" 

Violet  Oliver  answered  readily. 

"A  big  man  was  jigging  down  upon  us.  I  saw  him 
over  your  shoulder.  I  dislike  being  bumped  by  big 
men,"  she  said,  with  a  little  easy  laugh.  **And  still 
more  I  hate  having  a  new  frock  torn." 

Dick  Linforth  was  content  with  the  answer.  But  it 
happened  that  Sybil  Linforth  was  looking  on  from  her 
chair  in  the  corner,  and  the  corner  was  very  close  to 
the  spot  where  for  a  moment  Violet  Oliver  had  lost 
countenance.  She  looked  sharply  at  Sir  John  Casson, 
who  might  have  noticed  or  might  not.  His  face  be- 
trayed nothing  whatever.  He  went  on  talking  placidly, 
but  Mrs.  Linforth  ceased  to  listen  to  him. 

92 


LUFFE  IS  REMEMBERED 

Violet  Oliver  waltzed  with  her  partner  once  more 
round  the  room.     Then  she  said: 

"Let  us  stop!"  and  in  almost  the  same  breath  she 
added,  "Oh,  there's  your  friend." 

Linforth  turned  and  saw  standing  just  within  the 
doorway  his  friend  Shere  Ali. 

"  You  could  hardly  tell  that  he  was  not  English,"  she 
went  on;  and  indeed,  with  his  straight  features,  his 
supple  figure,  and  a  colour  no  darker  than  many  a  sun- 
burnt Englishman  wears  every  August,  Shere  Ali  might 
have  passed  unnoticed  by  a  stranger.  It  seemed  that 
he  had  been  watching  for  the  couple  to  stop  dancing. 
For  no  sooner  had  they  stopped  than  he  advanced 
quickly  towards  them. 

Linforth,  however,  had  not  as  yet  noticed  him. 

"It  can't  be  Shere  Ali,"  he  said.  "He  is  in  the 
country.     I  heard  from  him  only  to-day." 

"Yet  it  is  he,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  and  then  Linforth 
saw  him. 

"Hallo!"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  and  as  Shere  Ali 
joined  them  he  added  aloud,  "something  has  happened." 

"Yes,  I  have  news,"  said  Shere  Ali.  But  he  was 
looking  at  Mrs.  Oliver,  and  spoke  as  though  the  news 
had  been  pushed  for  a  moment  into  the  back  of  his 
mind. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Linforth. 

Shere  Ali  turned  to  Linforth. 

"I  go  back  to  Chiltistan." 

93 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"When?"  asked  Linforth,  and  a  note  of  envy  was 
audible  in  his  voice.  Mrs.  Oliver  heard  it  and  under- 
stood it.     She  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently. 

"By  the  first  boat  to  Bombay." 

"In  a  week's  time,  then  ?"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  quickly. 

Shere  Ali  glanced  swiftly  at  her,  seeking  the  mean- 
ing of  that  question.  Did  regret  prompt  it?  Or,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  she  glad  ? 

"Yes,  in  a  week's  time,"  he  replied  slowly. 

"Why?"  asked  Linforth.  "Is  there  trouble  in 
Chiltistan?"  He  spoke  regretfully.  It  would  be  hard 
luck  if  that  uneasy  State  were  to  wake  again  into  tur- 
moil while  he  was  kept  kicking  his  heels  at  Chatham. 

"Yes,  there  is  trouble,"  Shere  Ali  replied.  ''But  it 
is  not  the  kind  of  trouble  which  will  help  you  forward 
with  the  Road." 

The  trouble,  indeed,  was  of  quite  another  kind.  The 
Russians  were  not  stirring  behind  the  Hindu  Kush  or  on 
the  Pamirs.  The  turbulent  people  of  Chiltistan  were 
making  trouble,  and  profit  out  of  the  trouble,  it  is  true. 
That  they  would  be  sure  to  do  somewhere,  and,  more- 
over, they  would  do  it  with  a  sense  of  humour  more 
common  upon  the  Frontier  than  in  the  Provinces  of 
India.  But  they  were  not  at  the  moment  making 
trouble  in  their  own  country.  They  were  heard  of  in 
Masulipatam  and  other  cities  of  INIadras,  where  they 
were  badly  wanted  by  the  police  and  not  often  caught. 
The  quarrel  in  Chiltistan  lay  between  the  British  Raj, 

94 


LUFFE  IS  REMEMBERED 

as  represented  by  the  Resident,  and  the  Khan,  who  was 
spending  the  revenue  of  his  State  chiefly  upon  his  own 
amusements.  It  was  claimed  that  the  Resident  should 
henceforth  supervise  the  disposition  of  the  revenue,  and 
it  had  been  suggested  to  the  Khan  that  unless  he  con- 
sented to  the  proposal  he  would  have  to  retire  into  pri- 
vate life  in  some  other  quarter  of  the  Indian  Peninsula. 
To  give  to  the  suggestion  the  necessary  persuasive 
power,  the  young  Prince  was  to  be  brought  back  at 
once,  so  that  he  might  be  ready  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  succeed.  This  reason,  however,  was  not  given  to 
Shere  Ali.  He  was  merely  informed  by  the  Indian 
Government  that  he  must  return  to  his  country  at 
once. 

Shere  Ali  stood  before  Mrs.  Oliver. 

"You  will  give  me  a  dance?"  he  said. 

"After  supper,"  she  replied,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
within  Linforth's  arm.     But  Shere  Ali  did  not  give  way. 

"Wliere  shall  I  find  you?"  he  asked. 

"By  the  door,  here." 

And  upon  that  Shere  All's  voice  changed  to  one  of 
appeal.  There  came  a  note  of  longing  into  his  voice. 
He  looked  at  Violet  Oliver  with  burning  eyes.  He 
seemed  unaware  Linforth  was  standing  by. 

"  You  will  not  fail  me  ?"  he  said;  and  Linforth  moved 
impatiently. 

"No.  I  shall  be  there,"  said  Violet  Oliver,  and  she 
spoke  hurriedly  and  moved  by  through  the  doorway. 

95 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Beneath  her  eyeUds  she  stole  a  glance  at  her  companion. 
His  face  was  clouded.  The  scene  which  he  had  wit- 
nessed had  jarred  upon  him,  and  still  jarred.  When 
he  spoke  to  her  his  voice  had  a  sternness  which  Violet 
Oliver  had  not  heard  before.  But  she  had  always  been 
aware  that  it  might  be  heard,  if  at  any  time  he  disap- 
proved. 

"'Your  friend,'  you  called  him,  speaking  to  me,"  he 
said.     "It  seems  that  he  is  your  friend  too." 

"He  was  with  you  at  La  Grave.     I  met  him  there." 

"He  comes  to  your  house?" 

"  He  has  called  once  or  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver  sub- 
missively. It  was  by  no  wish  of  hers  that  Shere  Ali  had 
appeared  at  this  dance.  She  had,  on  the  contrary, 
been  at  some  pains  to  assure  herself  that  he  would  not 
be  there.  And  while  she  answered  Linforth  she  was 
turning  over  in  her  mind  a  difficulty  which  had  freshly 
arisen.  Shere  Ali  was  returning  to  India.  In  some 
respects  that  was  awkward.  But  Linforth's  ill-humour 
promised  her  a  way  of  escape.  He  was  rather  silent 
during  the  earlier  part  of  their  supper.  They  had  a 
little  table  to  themselves,  and  while  she  talked,  and 
talked  with  now  and  then  an  anxious  glance  at  Lin- 
forth, he  was  content  to  listen  or  to  answer  shortly. 
Finally  she  said: 

"  I  suppose  you  will  not  see  your  friend  again  before 
he  starts?" 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  replied  Linforth,  and  the  frown  gath- 

96 


LUFFE   IS  REMEMBERED 

ered  afresh  upon  his  forehead.  ''He  dines  to-morrow 
night  with  me  at  Chatham." 

"  Then  I  want  to  ask  you  something/*  she  continued. 
"I  want  you  not  to  mention  to  him  that  I  am  paying  a 
visit  to  India  in  the  cold  weather." 

Linforth's  face  cleared  in  an  instant. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  made  that  request,"  he  said 
frankly.  "I  have  no  right  to  say  it,  perhaps.  But  I 
think  you  are  wise." 

** Things  are  possible  here,"  she  agreed,  "which  are 
impossible  there." 

"Friendship,  for  instance." 

"Some  friendships,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver;  and  the  rest 
of  their  supper  they  ate  cheerily  enough.  Violet  Oliver 
was  genuinely  interested  in  her  partner.  She  was  not 
very  familiar  with  the  large  view  and  the  definite  pur- 
pose. Those  who  gathered  within  her  tiny  drawing- 
room,  who  sought  her  out  at  balls  and  parties,  were, 
as  a  rule,  the  younger  men  of  the  day,  and  Linforth, 
though  like  them  in  age  and  like  them,  too,  in  his 
capacity  for  enjoyment,  was  different  in  most  other 
ways.  For  the  large  view  and  the  definite  purpose 
coloured  all  his  life,  and,  though  he  spoke  little  of 
either,  set  him  apart. 

Mrs.  Oliver  did  not  cultivate  many  illusions  about 
herself.  She  saw  very  clearly  what  manner  of  men 
they  were  to  whom  her  beauty  made  its  chief  appeal — 
clean-minded  youths  for  the  most  part  not  remarkable 

97 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

for  brains — and  she  was  sincerely  proud  that  Linforth 
sought  her  out  no  less  than  they  did.  She  could  im- 
agine herself  afraid  of  Linforth,  and  that  fancy  gave 
her  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure.  She  understood  that  he 
could  easily  be  lost  altogether,  that  if  once  he  went 
away  he  would  not  return;  and  that  knowledge  made 
her  careful  not  to  lose  him.  Moreover,  she  had  brains 
herself.  She  led  him  on  that  evening,  and  he  spoke 
with  greater  freedom  than  he  had  used  with  her  before 
— greater  freedom,  she  hoped,  than  he  had  used  with 
anyone.  The  lighted  supper-room  grew  dim  before  his 
eyes,  the  noise  and  the  laughter  and  the  passing  figures 
of  the  other  guests  ceased  to  be  noticed.  He  talked  in 
a  low  voice,  and  with  his  keen  face  pushed  a  trifle  for- 
ward as  though,  while  he  spoke,  he  listened.  He  was 
listening  to  the  call  of  the  Road. 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  looked  anxiously  at  Violet. 

"  Have  I  bored  you  ?"  he  asked.  "  Generally  I  watch 
you,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "lest  I  should  bore  you. 
To-night  I  haven't  watched." 

**  For  that  reason  I  have  been  interested  to-night  more 
than  I  have  been  before." 

She  gathered  up  her  fan  with  a  little  sigh.  "  I  must  go 
upstairs  again,"  she  said,  and  she  rose  from  her  chair. 
*'I  am  sorry.     But  I  have  promised  dances." 

"I  will  take  you  up.     Then  I  shall  go." 

"You  will  dance  no  more?" 

"No,"  he  said  with  a  smile.     "I'll  not  spoil  a  per- 

98 


LUFFE  IS  REMEMBEllED 

feet  evening."  Violet  Oliver  was  not  given  to  tricks  or 
any  play  of  the  eyelids.  She  looked  at  him  directly, 
and  she  said  simply  "Thank  you.'* 

He  took  her  up  to  the  landing,  and  came  down  stairs 
again  for  his  hat  and  coat.  But,  as  he  passed  with  them 
along  the  passage  door  he  turned,  and  looking  up  the 
stairs,  saw  Violet  Oliver  watching  him.  She  waved  her 
hand  lightly  and  smiled.  As  the  door  closed  behind 
him  she  returned  to  the  ball-room.  Linforth  went  away 
with  no  suspicion  in  his  mind  that  she  had  stayed  her 
feet  upon  the  landing  merely  to  make  very  sure  that  he 
went.  He  had  left  his  mother  behind,  however,  and 
she  was  all  suspicion.  She  had  remarked  the  little 
scene  when  Shere  Ali  had  unexpectedly  appeared.  She 
had  noticed  the  embarrassment  of  Violet  Oliver  and 
the  anger  of  Shere  Ali.  It  was  possible  that  Sir  John 
Casson  had  also  not  been  blind  to  it.  For,  a  little  time 
afterwards,  he  nodded  towards  Shere  Ali. 

"Do  you  know  that  boy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  He  is  Dick's  great  friend.  They  have  much 
in  common.     His  father  was  my  husband's  friend." 

"And  both  believed  in  the  new  Road,  I  know,"  said 
Sir  John.  He  pulled  at  his  grey  moustache  thought- 
fully, and  asked :  "  Have  the  sons  the  Road  in  common, 
too?"  A  shadow  darkened  Sybil  Linforth's  face. 
She  sat  silent  for  some  seconds,  and  when  she  answered, 
it  was  with  a  great  reluctance. 

"I  believe  so,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  she  shiv- 

99 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

ered.  She  turned  her  face  towards  Casson.  It  was 
troubled,  fear-stricken,  and  in  that  assembly  of  laugh- 
ing and  light-hearted  people  it  roused  him  with  a  shock. 
"I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  that  they  had  not,"  she 
added,  and  her  voice  shook  and  trembled  as  she 
spoke. 

The  terrible  story  of  Linforth's  end,  long  since  dim 
in  Sir  John  CassonV  recollections,  came  back  in  vivid 
detail.  He  said  no  more  upon  that  point.  He  took 
Mrs.  Linforth  down  to  supper,  and  bringing  her  back 
again,  led  her  round  the  ball-room.  An  open  archway 
upon  one  side  led  into  a  conservatory,  where  only  fairy 
lights  glowed  amongst  the  plants  and  flowers.  As  the 
couple  passed  this  archway.  Sir  John  looked  in.  He 
did  not  stop,  but,  after  they  had  walked  a  few  yards 
further,  he  said: 

"Was  it  pale  blue  that  Violet  Oliver  was  wearing? 
I  am  not  clever  at  noticing  these  things." 

"Yes,  pale  blue  and — pearls,"  said  Sybil  Linforth. 

"There  is  no  need  that  we  should  walk  any  further. 
Here  are  two  chairs,"  said  Sir  John.  There  was  in 
truth  no  need.  He  had  ascertained  something  about 
which,  in  spite  of  his  outward  placidity,  he  had  been 
very  curious. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  named  Luffe?"  he 
asked. 

Sybil  Linforth  started.  It  had  been  Luffe  whose 
continual    arguments,    entreaties,    threats,    and    per- 

100 


LUFFE  IS  REMEMBERED 

suasions  had  caused  the  Road  long  ago  to  be  carried 
forward.     But  she  answered  quietly,  "Yes." 

"  Of  course  you  and  I  remember  him,"  said  Sir  John. 
"  But  how  many  others  ?  That's  the  penalty  of  Indian 
service.  You  are  soon  forgotten,  in  India  as  quickly 
as  here.  In  most  cases,  no  doubt,  it  doesn't  matter. 
Men  just  as  good  and  younger  stand  waiting  at  the 
milestones  to  carry  on  the  torch.  But  in  some  cases 
I  think  it's  a  pity." 

"In  Mr.  Luffe's  case?"  asked  Sybil  Linforth. 

"Particularly  in  Luffe's  case,"  said  Sir  John. 


101 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  UNANSWERED   QUESTION 

Sir  John  had  guessed  aright.  Shere  Ali  was  in  the 
conservatory,  and  Violet  OHver  sat  by  his  side. 

"I  did  not  expect  you  to-night,"  she  said  Hghtly,  as 
she  opened  and  shut  her  fan. 

"Nor  did  I  mean  to  .come,"  he  answered.  "I  had 
arranged  to  stay  in  the  country  until  to-morrow.  But 
I  got  my  letter  from  the  India  OflSce  this  morning. 
It  left  me — restless."  He  uttered  the  word  with  re- 
luctance, and  almost  with  an  air  of  shame.  Then  he 
clasped  his  hands  together,  and  blurted  out  violently: 
"  It  left  me  miserable.  I  could  not  stay  away,"  and  he 
turned  to  his  companion.  "I  wanted  to  see  you,  if 
only  for  five  minutes."  It  was  Violet  Oliver's  instinct 
to  be  kind.  She  fitted  herself  naturally  to  the  words 
of  her  companions,  sympathised  with  them  in  their 
troubles,  laughed  with  them  when  they  were  at  the  top 
of  their  spirits.  So  now  her  natural  kindness  made 
her  eyes  gentle.     She  leaned  forward. 

"Did  you?"  she  asked  softly.  "And  yet  you  are 
going  home!" 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Chiltistan,"  said  Shere  Ali. 

"Home!"  Violet  Oliver  repeated,  dwelling  upon  the 
word  with  a  friendly  insistence. 

102 


AN  UNANSWERED  QUESTION 

But  the  young  prince  did  not  assent;  he  remained 
silent — so  long  silent  that  Violet  Oliver  moved  uneasily. 
She  was  conscious  of  suspense;  she  began  to  dread  his 
answer.     He  turned  to  her  quickly  as  she  moved. 

"You  say  that  I  am  going  home.  That's  the  whole 
question/'  he  said.  "I  am  trying  to  answer  it — and 
I  can't.     Listen!" 

Into  the  quiet  and  dimly  lit  place  of  flowers  the  music 
of  the  violins  floated  with  a  note  of  wistfulness  in  the 
melody  they  played — a  suggestion  of  regret.  Through 
a  doorway  at  the  end  of  the  conservatory  Shere  Ali 
could  see  the  dancers  swing  by  in  the  lighted  ball-room, 
the  women  in  their  bright  frocks  and  glancing  jewels, 
some  of  whom  had  flattered  him,  a  few  of  whom  had 
been  his  friends,  and  all  of  whom  had  treated  him  as  one 
of  their  own  folk  and  their  equal. 

"I  have  heard  the  tune,  which  they  are  playing, 
before,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  heard  it  one  summer  night 
in  Geneva.  Linforth  and  I  had  come  down  from  the 
mountains.  We  were  dining  with  a  party  on  the  bal- 
cony of  a  restaurant  over  the  lake.  A  boat  passed 
hidden  by  the  darkness.  We  could  hear  the  splash  of 
the  oars.  There  were  musicians  in  the  boat  playing 
this  melody.  We  were  all  very  happy  that  night.  And 
I  hear  it  again  now — when  I  am  with  you.  I  think 
that  I  shall  remember  it  very  often  in  Chiltistan." 

There  was  so  unmistakable  a  misery  in  his  manner, 
in  his  voice,  in  his  dejected  looks,  that  Violet  was  moved 

103 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

to  a  deep  sympathy.  He  was  only  a  boy,  of  course,  but 
he  was  a  boy  sunk  in  distress. 

"But  there  are  your  plans,"  she  urged.  "Have  you 
forgotten  them?  You  were  going  to  do  so  much. 
There  was  so  much  to  do.  So  many  changes,  so  many 
reforms  which  must  be  made.  You  used  to  talk  to 
me  so  eagerly.  No  more  of  your  people  were  to  be 
sold  into  slavery.  You  were  going  to  stop  all  that. 
You  were  going  to  silence  the  mullahs  when  they 
preached  sedition  and  to  free  Chiltistan  from  their 
tyranny." 

Violet  remembered  with  a  whimsical  little  smile  how 
Shere  All's  enthusiasm  had  wearied  her,  but  she  checked 
the  smile  and  continued: 

"Are  all  those  plans  mere  dreams  and  fancies?" 

"No,"  replied  Shere  Ali,  lifting  his  head.  "No," 
he  said  again  with  something  of  violence  in  the  empha- 
sis; and  for  a  moment  he  sat  erect,  with  his  shoulders 
squared,  fronting  his  destiny.  Almost  for  a  moment 
he  recaptured  that  for  which  he  had  been  seeking — 
his  identity  with  his  own  race.  But  the  moment  passed. 
His  attitude  relaxed.  He  turned  to  Violet  with  troubled 
eyes.  "No,  they  are  not  dreams;  they  are  things 
which  need  to  be  done.  But  I  can't  realise  them  now, 
with  you  sitting  here,  any  more  than  I  can  realise,  with 
this  music  in  my  ears,  that  it  is  my  home  to  which  1 
am   going   back." 

"Oh,  but  you  will!"  cried  Violet.     "When  you  are 

104 


AN  UNANSWERED  QUESTION 

out  there  you  will.  There's  the  road,  too,  the  road 
which  you  and  Mr.  Linforth " 

She  did  not  complete  the  sentence.  With  a  low  cry 
Shere  Ali  broke  in  upon  her  words.  He  leaned  for- 
ward, with  his  hands  covering  his  face. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  "there's  the  road — there's  the 
road."  A  passion  of  self-reproach  shook  him.  Not 
for  nothing  had  Linforth  been  his  friend.  "I  feel  a 
traitor,"  he  cried.  "For  ten  years  we  have  talked  of 
that  road,  planned  it,  and  made  it  in  thought,  poring 
over  the  maps.  Yes,  for  even  at  the  beginning,  in  our 
first  term  at  Eton,  we  began.  Over  the  passes  to  the 
foot  of  the  Hindu  Kush !  Only  a  year  ago  I  was  eager, 
really,  honestly  eager,"  and  he  paused  for  a  moment, 
wondering  at  that  picture  of  himself  which  his  words 
evoked,  wondering  whether  it  was  indeed  he — he  who 
sat  in  the  conservatory — who  had  cherished  those 
bright  dreams  of  a  great  life  in  Chiltistan.  "Yes,  it  is 
true.     I  was  honestly  eager  to  go  back." 

"  Less  than  a  year  ago,"  said  Violet  Oliver  quickly. 
"  Less  than  a  week  ago.  When  did  I  see  you  last  ?  On 
Sunday,  wasn't  it?" 

"But  was  I  honest  then?"  exclaimed  Shere  Ali.  "I 
don't  know.    I  thought  I  was — right  up  to  to-day,  right 

up  to  this  morning  when  the  letter  came.  And  then " 

He  made  a  despairing  gesture,  as  of  a  man  crumbling 
dust  between  his  fingers. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  turning  towards  her.     "I 

105 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

believe  that  the  last  time  I  was  really  honest  was  in 
August  of  last  year.  Linforth  and  I  talked  of  the 
Road  through  a  long  day  in  the  hut  upon  the  Meije.  I 
was  keen  then — honestly  keen.  But  the  next  evening 
we  came  down  to  La  Grave,  and — I  met  you." 

"No,"  Violet  Oliver  protested.  "That's  not  the 
reason." 

"I  think  it  is,"  said  Shere  Ali  quietly;  and  Violet 
was  silent. 

In  spite  of  her  pity,  which  was  genuine  enough,  her 
thoughts  went  out  towards  Shere  All's  friend.  With 
what  words  and  in  what  spirit  would  he  have  received 
Shere  Ali's  summons  to  Chiltistan?  She  asked  her- 
self the  question,  knowing  well  the  answer.  There 
would  have  been  no  lamentations — a  little  regret,  per- 
haps, perhaps  indeed  a  longing  to  take  her  with  him. 
But  there  would  have  been  not  a  thought  of  abandon- 
ing the  work.  She  recognised  that  truth  with  a  sudden 
spasm  of  anger,  but  yet  admiration  strove  with  the  anger 
and  mastered  it. 

"If  what  you  say  is  true,"  she  said  to  Shere  Ali 
gently,  "I  am  very  sorry.  But  I  hope  it  is  not  true. 
You  have  been  ten  years  here;  you  have  made  many 
friends.  Just  for  the  moment  the  thought  of  leaving 
them  behind  troubles  you.     But  that  will  pass." 

"Will  it?"  he  asked  quietly.  Then  a  smile  came 
upon  his  face.  "There's  one  thing  of  which  I  am 
glad,"  he  whispered. 

106 


AN  UNANSWERED  QUESTION 

"Yes." 

"You  are  wearing  my  pearls  to-night." 

Violet  Oliver  smiled,  and  with  a  tender  caressing 
movement  her  fingers  touched  and  felt  the  rope  of 
pearls  about  her  neck.  Both  the  smile  and  the 
movement  revealed  Violet  Oliver.  She  had  a  love 
of  beautiful  things,  but,  above  all,  of  jewels.  It  was 
a  passion  with  her  deeper  than  any  she  had  ever 
known.  Beautiful  stones,  and  pearls  more  than  any 
other  stones,  made  an  appeal  to  her  which  she  could 
not  resist. 

"They  are  very  lovely,"  she  said  softly. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  remember  that  you  wore  them 
to-night,"  said  Shere  Ali;  "for,  as  you  know,  I  love 
you." 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Oliver;  and  she  rose  with  a  start 
from  her  chair.     Shere  Ali  did  the  same. 

"It's  true,"  he  said  sullenly;  and  then,  with  a  swift 
step,  he  placed  himself  in  her  way.  Violet  Oliver  drew 
back  quietly.  Her  heart  beat  quickly.  She  looked  into 
Shere  All's  face  and  was  afraid.  He  was  quite  still; 
even  the  expression  of  his  face  was  set,  but  his  eyes 
burned  upon  her.  There  was  a  fierceness  in  his  man- 
ner which  was  new  to  her. 

His  hand  darted  out  quickly  towards  her.  But 
Violet  Oliver  was  no  less  quick.  She  drew  back  yet 
another  step.  "I  didn't  understand,"  she  said,  and 
her  lips  shook,  so  that  the  words  were  blurred.     She 

107 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

raised  her  hands  to  her  neck  and  loosened  the  coils  of 
pearls  about  it  as  though  she  meant  to  lift  them  off  and 
return  them  to  the  giver. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  please,"  said  Shere  Ali;  and  al- 
ready his  voice  and  his  manner  had  changed.  The 
sullenness  had  gone.  Now  he  besought.  His  English 
training  came  to  his  aid.  He  had  learned  reverence 
for  women,  acquiring  it  gradually  and  almost  uncon- 
sciously rather  than  from  any  direct  teaching.  He  had 
spent  one  summer's  holidays  with  Mrs.  Linforth  for 
his  hostess  in  the  house  under  the  Sussex  Downs,  and 
from  her  and  from  Dick's  manner  towards  her  he  had 
begun  to  acquire  it.  He  had  become  conscious  of  that 
reverence,  and  proudly  conscious.  He  had  fostered 
it.  It  was  one  of  the  qualities,  one  of  the  essential 
qualities,  of  the  white  people.  It  marked  the  sahibs  off 
from  the  Eastern  races.  To  possess  that  reverence,  to 
be  influenced  and  moved  and  guided  by  it — that  made 
him  one  with  them.  He  called  upon  it  to  help  him  now. 
Almost  he  had  forgotten  it. 

"Please  don't  take  them  off,"  he  implored.  "There 
was  nothing  to  understand." 

And  perhaps  there  was  not,  except  this — that  Violet 
Oliver  was  of  those  who  take  but  do  not  give.  She  re- 
moved her  hands  from  her  throat.  The  moment  of 
danger  had  passed,  as  she  very  well  knew. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  should  be  very  grateful  for,"  he 
said  humbly.     "It  would  not  cause  you  very  much 

108 


AN  UNANSWERED  QUESTION 

trouble,  and  it  would  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.     I 
would  like  you  to  write  to  me  now  and  then." 

"Why,  of  course  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  with  a 
smile. 

''You  promise?" 

"Yes.     But  you  will  come  back  to  England." 

"I  shall  try  to  come  next  summer,  if  it's  only  for  a 
week,"  said  Shere  Ali;  and  he  made  way  for  Violet. 

She  moved  a  few  yards  across  the  conservatory,  and 
then  stopped  for  Shere  Ali  to  come  level  with  her.  "I 
shall  write,  of  course,  to  Chiltistan,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  go  northwards  from  Bombay. 
I  travel  straight  to  Kohara." 

"Very  well.  I  will  write  to  you  there,"  said  Violet 
Oliver;  but  it  seemed  that  she  was  not  satisfied.  She 
walked  slowly  towards  the  door,  with  Shere  Ali  at  her 
side. 

"  And  you  will  stay  in  Chiltistan  until  you  come  back 
to  us?"  she  asked.  "You  won't  go  down  to  Calcutta 
at  Christmas,  for  instance?  Calcutta  is  the  place  to 
which  people  go  at  Christmas,  isn't  it?  I  think  you 
are  right.  You  have  a  career  in  your  own  country, 
amongst  your  own  people." 

She  spoke  urgently.  And  Shere  Ali,  thinking  that 
thus  she  spoke  in  concern  for  his  future,  drew  some 
pride  from  her  encouragement.  He  also  drew  some 
shame;  for  she  might  have  been  speaking,  too,  in  pity 
for  his  distress. 

109 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Mrs.  Oliver,"  he  said,  with  hesitation;  and  she 
stopped  and  turned  to  him.  "Perhaps  I  said  more 
than  I  meant  to  say  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  have  not  for- 
gotten really  that  there  is  much  for  me  to  do  in  my  own 
country;  I  have  not  forgotten  that  I  can  thank  all  of 
you  here  who  have  shown  me  so  much  kindness  by 
more  than  mere  words.  For  I  can  help  in  Chiltistan 
— I  can  really  help." 

Then  came  a  smile  upon  Violet  Oliver's  face,  and 
her  eyes  shone. 

''That  is  how  I  would  have  you  speak,"  she  cried. 
"I  am  glad.  Oh,  I  am  glad!"  and  her  voice  rang 
with  the  fulness  of  her  pleasure.  She  had  been  greatly 
distressed  by  the  unhappiness  of  her  friend,  and  in  that 
distress  compunction  had  played  its  part.  There  was 
no  hardness  in  Violet  Oliver's  character.  To  give  pain 
flattered  no  vanity  in  her.  She  understood  that  Shere 
Ali  would  suffer  because  of  her,  and  she  longed  that  he 
should  find  his  compensation  in  the  opportunities  of 
rulership. 

"Let  us  say  good-bye  here,"  he  said.  "We  may  not 
be  alone  again  before  I  go." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  reluctantly  let  it  go. 

"That  must  last  me  until  the  summer  of  next  year," 
he  said  with  a  smile. 

"Until  the  summer,"  said  Violet  Oliver;  and  she 
passed  out  from  the  doorway  into  the  ball-room.     But 

110 


AN   UNANSWERED   QUESTION 

as  she  entered  the  room  and  came  once  more  amongst 
the  hghts  and  the  noise,  and  the  famihar  groups  of  her 
friends,  she  uttered  a  Httle  sigh  of  rehef.  The  summer 
of  next  year  was  a  long  way  off;  and  meanwhile  here 
was  an  episode  in  her  life  ended  as  she  wished  it  to  end ; 
for  in  these  last  minutes  it  had  begun  to  disquiet  her. 

Shere  Ali  remained  behind  in  the  conservatory.  His 
eyes  wandered  about  it.  He  was  impressing  upon  his 
memory  every  detail  of  the  place,  the  colours  of  the 
flowers  and  their  very  perfumes.  He  looked  through 
the  doorway  into  the  ball-room  whence  the  music 
swelled.  The  note  of  regret  was  louder  than  ever  in 
his  ears,  and  dominated  the  melody.  To-morrow  the 
lights,  the  delicate  frocks,  the  laughing  voices  and 
bright  eyes  would  be  gone.  The  violins  spoke  to  him 
of  that  morrow  of  blank  emptiness  softly  and  languor- 
ously like  one  making  a  luxury  of  grief.  In  a  wreck's  time 
he  would  be  setting  his  face  towards  Chiltistan;  and, 
in  spite  of  the  brave  words  he  had  used  to  Violet  Oliver, 
once  more  the  question  forced  itself  into  his  mind. 

"Do  I  belong  here?"  he  asked.  "Or  do  I  belong 
to  Chiltistan?" 

On  the  one  side  was  all  that  during  ten  years  he  had 
gradually  learned  to  love  and  enjoy;  on  the  other  side 
was  his  race  and  the  land  of  his  birth.  He  could  not 
answer  the  question;  for  there  was  a  third  possibility 
which  had  not  yet  entered  into  his  speculations,  and  in 
that  third  possibility  alone  was  the  answer  to  be  found. 

Ill 


CHAPTER  XI 

AT   THE   GATE   OF   LAHORE 

Shere  Ali,  accordingly,  travelled  with  reluctance  to 
Bombay,  and  at  that  port  an  anonymous  letter  with  the 
postmark  of  Calcutta  was  brought  to  him  on  board  the 
steamer.  Shere  Ali  glanced  through  it,  and  laughed, 
knowing  well  his  countrymen's  passion  for  mysteries 
and  intrigues.  He  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  took 
the  northward  mail.  These  were  the  days  before  the 
North- West  Province  had  been  severed  from  the  Pun- 
jab, and  instructions  had  been  given  to  Shere  Ali  to 
break  his  journey  at  Lahore.  He  left  the  train,  there- 
fore, at  that  station,  on  a  morning  when  the  thermom- 
eter stood  at  over  a  hundred  in  the  shade,  and  was  car- 
ried in  a  barouche  drawn  by  camels  to  Government 
House.  There  a  haggard  and  heat-worn  Commissioner 
received  him,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  took  him 
for  a  ride,  giving  him  sage  advice  with  the  accent  of 
authority. 

"His  Excellency  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  you 
himself,"  said  the  Commissioner.  "But  he  is  in  the 
Hills  and  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  take  you  so 
far  out  of  your  way.  It  is  as  well  that  you  should  get 
to  Kohara  as  soon  as  possible,  and  on  particular  sub- 

112 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  LAHORE 

jects  the  Resident,  Captain  Phillips,  will  be  able  and 
glad  to  advise  you." 

The  Commissioner  spoke  politely  enough,  but  the 
accent  of  authority  was  there.  Shere  All's  ears  were 
quick  to  notice  and  resent  it.  Some  years  had  passed 
since  commands  had  been  laid  upon  him. 

"  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  hear  what  Captain  Phillips 
has  to  say,"  he  replied  stiffly. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  the  Commissioner,  taking 
that  for  granted.     "  Captain  Phillips  has  our  views." 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  stiffness  of  Shere 
All's  tone.  He  was  tired  with  the  strain  of  the  hot 
weather,  as  his  drawn  face  and  hollow  eyes  showed 
clearly. 

"On  general  lines,"  he  continued,  "his  Excellency 
would  like  you  to  understand  that  the  Government  has 
no  intention  and  no  wish  to  interfere  with  the  customs 
and  laws  of  Chiltistan.  In  fact  it  is  at  this  moment 
particularly  desirable  that  you  should  throw  your  in- 
fluence on  the  side  of  the  native  observances." 

"Indeed,"  said  Shere  Ali,  as  he  rode  along  the  Mall 
by  the  Commissioner's  side.  "  Then  why  was  I  sent  to 
Oxford?" 

The  Commissioner  was  not  surprised  by  the  question, 
though  it  was  abruptly  put. 

"Surely  that  is  a  question  to  ask  of  his  Highness, 
your  father,"  he  replied.  "  No  doubt  all  you  learnt  and 
saw  there  will  be  extremely  valuable.     What  I  am  say- 

113 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

ing  now  is  that  the  Government  wishes  to  give  no  pre- 
text whatever  to  those  who  would  disturb  Chiltistan, 
and  it  looks  to  you  with  every  confidence  for  help  and 
support." 

"And  the  road?"  asked  Shere  Ali. 

"It  is  not  proposed  to  carry  on  the  road.  The  mer- 
chants in  Kohara  think  that  by  bringing  more  trade, 
their  profits  would  become  less,  while  the  country 
people  look  upon  it  as  a  deliberate  attack  upon  their 
independence.  The  Government  has  no  desire  to  force 
it  upon  the  people  against  their  wish." 

Shere  Ali  made  no  reply,  but  his  heart  grew  bitter 
within  him.  He  had  come  out  to  India  sore  and  dis- 
tressed at  parting  from  his  friends,  from  the  life  he  had 
grown  to  love.  All  the  way  down  the  Red  Sea  and 
across  the  Indian  Ocean,  the  pangs  of  regret  had  been 
growing  keener  with  each  new  mile  which  was  gathered 
in  behind  the  screw.  He  had  lain  awake  listening  to 
the  throb  of  the  engine  with  an  aching  heart,  and  with 
every  longing  for  the  country  he  had  left  behind  grow- 
ing stronger,  every  recollection  growing  more  vivid  and 
intense.  There  was  just  one  consolation  which  he  had. 
Violet  Oliver  had  enheartened  him  to  make  the  most  of 
it,  and  calling  up  the  image  of  her  face  before  him,  he 
had  striven  so  to  do.  There  were  his  plans  for  the  re- 
generation of  his  country.  And  lo!  here  at  Lahore, 
three  days  after  he  had  set  foot  on  land,  they  were  shat- 
tered— before  they  were  begun.     He  had  been  trained 

114 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  EAHOllE 

and  educated  in  the  West  according  to  Western  notions 
and  he  was  now  bidden  to  go  and  rule  in  the  East  ac- 
cording to  the  ideals  of  the  East.  Bidden!  For  the 
quiet  accent  of  authority  in  the  words  of  the  unobservant 
man  who  rode  beside  him  rankled  deeply.  He  had  it 
in  his  thoughts  to  cry  out:  "Then  what  place  have  I  in 
Chiltistan?" 

But  though  he  never  uttered  the  question,  it  was  none 
the  less  answered. 

"Economy  and  quiet  are  the  two  things  which Chil- 
tistan  needs,"  said  the  Commissioner.  Then  he  looked 
carelessly  at  Shere  Ali. 

"  It  is  hoped  that  you  will  marry  and  settle  down  as 
soon  as  possible,"  he  said. 

Shere  Ali  reined  in  his  horse,  stared  for  a  moment  at 
his  companion  and  then  began  quietly  to  laugh.  The 
laughter  was  not  pleasant  to  listen  to,  and  it  grew 
harsher  and  louder.  But  it  brought  no  change  to  the 
tired  face  of  the  Commissioner,  who  had  stopped  his 
horse  beside  Shere  Ali's  and  was  busy  with  the  buckle 
of  his  stirrup  leather.  He  raised  his  head  when  the 
laughter  stopped.  And  it  stopped  as  abruptly  as  it  had 
begun. 

"You  were  saying "  he  remarked  politely. 

"That  I  would  like,  if  there  is  time,  to  ride  through 
the  Bazaar." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Commissioner.  "This  way," 
and  he  turned  at  right  angles  out  of  the  Mall  and  its 

115 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

avenue  of  great  trees  and  led  the  way  towards  the  native 
city.     Short  of  it,  however,  he  stopped. 

"You  won't  mind  if  I  leave  you  here,"  he  said. 
"There  is  some  work  to  be  done.  You  can  make  no 
mistake.     You  can  see  the  Gate  from  here." 

"Is  that  the  Delhi  Gate?"  asked  Shere  Ali. 

"  Yes.  You  can  find  your  own  way  back,  no  doubt " ; 
and  the  unobservant  Commissioner  rode  away  at  a  trot. 

Shere  Ali  went  forward  alone  down  the  narrowing 
street  towards  the  Gate.  He  was  aflame  with  indigna- 
tion. So  he  was  to  be  nothing,  he  was  to  do  nothing, 
except  to  practice  economy  and  marry — a  nigger.  The 
contemptuous  word  rose  to  his  mind.  Long  ago  it  had 
been  applied  to  him  more  than  once  during  his  early 
school-days,  until  desperate  battles  and  black  eyes  had 
won  him  immunity.  Now  he  used  it  savagely  himself 
to  stigmatise  his  own  people.  He  was  of  the  White 
People,  he  declared.  He  felt  it,  he  looked  it.  Even  at 
that  moment  a  portly  gentleman  of  Lahore  in  a  coloured 
turban  and  patent-leather  shoes  salaamed  to  him  as  he 
passed  upon  his  horse.  "Surely,"  he  thought,  "I  am 
one  of  the  Sahibs.  This  fool  of  a  Commissioner  does 
not  understand." 

A  woman  passed  him  carrying  a  babe  poised  upon 
her  head,  with  silver  anklets  upon  her  bare  ankles  and 
heavy  silver  rings  upon  her  toes.  She  turned  her  face, 
which  was  overshadowed  by  a  hood,  to  look  at  Shere 
Ali  as  he  rode  by.     He  saw  the  heavy  stud  of  silver  and 

116 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  LAHORE 

enamel  in  her  nostril,  the  withered  brown  face.     He 
turned  and  looked  at  her,  as  she  walked  flat-footed  and 
ungainly,  her  pyjamas  of  pink  cotton  showing  beneath 
her  cloak.     He  had  no  part  or  lot  with  any  of  these 
people  of  the  East.     The  face  of  Violet  Oliver  shone 
before  his  eyes.     There  was  his  mate.     He  recalled  the 
exquisite  daintiness  of  her  appearance,  her  ruffles  of 
lace,  the  winning  sweetness  of  her  eyes.     Not  in  Chil- 
tistan  would  he  find  a  woman  to  drive  that  image  from 
his  thoughts. 

Meanwhile  he  drew  nearer  to  the  Delhi  Gate.     A 
stream  of  people  flowed  out  from  it  towards  him.    Over 
their  heads  he  looked  through  the  archway  down  the 
narrow  street,  where  between  the  booths  and  under  the 
carved  overhanging  balconies  the  brown  people  robed 
and  turbaned,  in  saffron  and  blue,  pink  and   white, 
thronged  and  chattered  and  jostled,  a  kaleidoscope  of 
colour.     Shere  Ali  turned  his  eyes  to  the  right  and  the 
left  as  he  went.     It  was  not  merely  to  rid  himself  of  the 
Commissioner  that  he  had  proposed  to  ride  on  to  the 
bazaars  by  way  of  the  Delhi  Gate.     The  anonymous 
letter  bearing  the  postmark  of  Calcutta,  which  had  been 
placed  in  his  hand  when  the  steamer  reached  Bombay, 
besought  him  to  pass  by  the  Delhi  Gate  at  Lahore  and 
do  certain  things  by  which  means  he  would  hear  much 
to  his  advantage.     He  had  no  thought  at  the  moment 
to   do   the   particular  things,   but  he  was  sufficiently 
curious  to  pass  by  the  Delhi  Gate.     Some  intrigue  was 

117 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

on  hand  into  which  it  was  sought  to  lure  him.     He  had 
not  forgotten  that  his  countrymen  were  born  intriguers. 

Slowly  he  rode  along.  Here  and  there  a  group  of 
people  were  squatting  on  the  ground,  talking  noisily. 
Here  and  there  a  beggar  stretched  out  a  maimed  limb 
and  sought  for  alms.  Then  close  to  the  gate  he  saw 
that  for  which  he  searched :  a  man  sitting  apart  with  a 
blanket  over  his  head.  No  one  spoke  to  the  man,  and 
for  his  part  he  never  moved.  He  sat  erect  with  his  legs 
crossed  in  front  of  him  and  his  hands  resting  idly  on  his 
knees,  a  strange  and  rather  grim  figure;  so  motionless, 
so  utterly  lifeless  he  seemed.  The  blanket  reached  al- 
most to  the  ground  behind  and  hung  down  to  his  lap  in 
front,  and  Shere  Ali  noticed  that  a  leathern  begging- 
bowl  at  his  side  was  well  filled  with  coins.  So  he  must 
have  sat  just  in  that  attitude,  with  that  thick  covering 
stifling  him,  all  through  the  fiery  heat  of  that  long  day. 
As  Shere  Ali  looked,  he  saw  a  poor  bent  man  in  rags, 
with  yellow  caste  marks  on  his  forehead,  add  a  copper 
pi  to  the  collection  in  the  bowl.  Shere  Ali  stopped  the 
giver. 

"Who  is  he  ?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  draped  figure. 

The  old  Hindu  raised  his  hand  and  bowed  his  fore- 
head into  the  palm. 

"  Huzoor,  he  is  a  holy  man,  a  stranger  who  has  lately 
come  to  Lahore,  but  the  holiest  of  all  the  holy  men  who 
have  ever  sat  by  the  Delhi  Gate.  His  fame  is  already 
great." 

118 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  LAHORE 

''But  why  does  he  sit  covered  with  the  blanket?" 
asked  Shere  AH. 

"Hiizoor,  because  of  his  hoHness.  He  is  so  holy 
that  his  face  must  not  be  seen." 

Shere  Ali  laughed. 

''He  told  you  that  himself,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"Huzoor,  it  is  well  known,"  said  the  old  man.  "He 
sits  by  the  road  all  day  until  the  darkness  comes " 

"Yes,"  said  Shere  Ali,  bethinking  him  of  the  recom- 
mendations in  his  letter,  "until  the  darkness  comes— 
and  then?" 

"  Then  he  goes  away  into  the  city  and  no  one  sees  him 
until  the  morning";  and  the  old  man  passed  on. 

Shere  Ali  chuckled  and  rode  by  the  hooded  man. 
His  curiosity  increased.  It  was  quite  likely  that  the 
blanket  hid  a  Mohammedan  Pathan  from  beyond  the 
hills.  To  come  down  into  the  plains  and  mulct  the 
pious  Hindu  by  some  such  ingenious  practice  would 
appeal  to  the  Pathan's  sense  of  humour  almost  as  much 
as  to  his  pocket.  Shere  Ali  drew  the  letter  from  his 
pocket,  and  in  the  waning  light  read  it  through  again. 
True,  the  postmark  showed  that  the  letter  had  been 
posted  in  Calcutta,  but  more  than  one  native  of  Chil- 
tistan  had  come  south  and  set  up  as  a  money-lender 
m  that  city  on  the  proceeds  of  a  successful  burglary. 
He  replaced  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  rode  on  at  a 
walk  through  the  throng.  The  darkness  came  quickly; 
oil  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  booths  and  shone  though 

119 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  unglazed  window-spaces  overhead.  A  refreshing 
coolness  fell  upon  the  town,  the  short,  welcome  interval 
between  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the  suffocating  heat  of 
the  night.  Shere  Ali  turned  his  horse  and  rode  back 
again  to  the  gate.  The  hooded  beggar  still  sat  upon  the 
ground,  but  he  was  alone.  The  others,  the  blind  and 
the  maimed,  had  crawled  away  to  their  dens.  Except 
this  grim  motionless  man,  there  was  no  one  squatting 
upon  the  ground. 

Shere  Ali  reined  in  beside  him,  and  bending  forward 
in  his  saddle  spoke  in  a  low  voice  a  few  words  of  Pushtu. 
The  hooded  figure  did  not  move,  but  from  behind 
the  blanket  there  issued  a  muffled  voice. 

*'If  your  Highness  will  ride  slowly  on,  your  servant 
will  follow  and  come  to  his  side." 

Shere  Ali  went  on,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  heard 
the  soft  patter  of  a  man  running  barefoot  along  the 
dusty  road.  He  stopped  his  horse  and  the  patter  of 
feet  ceased,  but  a  moment  after,  silent  as  a  shadow,  the 
man  was  at  his  side. 

"You  are  of  my  country?"  said  Shere  Ali. 

"I  am  of  Kohara,"  returned  the  man.  "Safdar 
Khan  of  Kohara.  May  God  keep  your  Highness  in 
health.     We  have  waited  long  for  your  presence." 

"What  are  you  doing  in  Lahore?"  asked  Shere  Ali. 

In  the  darkness  he  saw  a  flash  of  white  as  Safdar 
Klian  smiled. 

"There  was  a  little  trouble,  your  Highness,  with  one 

120 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  LAHORE 

Ishak  Mohammed  and — Ishak  Mohammed's  son  is 
still  alive.  He  is  a  boy  of  eight,  it  is  true,  and  could  not 
hold  a  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  But  the  trouble  took  place 
near  the  road." 

Shere  Ali  nodded  his  head  in  comprehension.  Safdar 
Khan  had  shot  his  enemy  on  the  road,  which  is  a  holy 
place,  and  therefore  he  came  within  the  law. 

"  Blood-money  was  offered,"  continued  Safdar  Khan, 
"but  the  boy  would  not  consent,  and  claims  my  life. 
His  mother  would  hold  the  rifle  for  him  while  he  pulled 
the  trigger.  So  I  am  better  in  Lahore.  Moreover, 
your  Highness,  for  a  poor  man  life  is  difficult  in  Ko- 
hara.  Taxes  are  high.  So  I  came  down  to  this  gate 
and  sat  with  a  cloak  over  my  head." 

"  And  you  have  found  it  profitable,"  said  Shere  Ali. 

Again  the  teeth  flashed  in  the  darkness  and  Safdar 
Khan  laughed. 

"For  two  days  I  sat  by  the  Delhi  Gate  and  no  one 
spoke  to  me  or  dropped  a  single  coin  in  my  bowl.  But 
on  the  third  day  a  good  man,  may  God  preserve  him, 
passed  by  when  I  was  nearly  stifled  and  asked  me  why 
I  sat  in  the  heat  of  the  sun  imder  a  blanket.  Thereupon 
I  told  him,  what  doubtless  your  Highness  knows,  that 
my  face  is  much  too  holy  to  be  looked  upon,  and  since 
then  your  Highness'  servant  has  prospered  exceedingly. 
The  device  is  a  good  one." 

Suddenly  Safdar  Khan  stumbled  as  he  walked  and 
lurched  against  the  horse  and  its  rider.     He  recovered 

121 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

himself  in  a  moment,  with  prayers  for  forgiveness  and 
curses  upon  his  stupidity  for  setting  his  foot  upon  a 
sharp  stone.  But  he  had  put  out  his  hand  as  he 
stumbled  and  that  hand  had  run  lightly  down  Shere 
Ali's  coat  and  had  felt  the  texture  of  his  clothes. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Calcutta,"  said  the  Prince, 
"which  besought  me  to  speak  to  you,  for  you  had 
something  for  my  ear.  Therefore  speak,  and  speak 
quickly." 

But  a  change  had  come  over  Safdar  Khan.  Certainly 
Shere  Ali  was  wearing  the  dress  of  one  of  the  Sahibs. 
A  man  passed  carrying  a  lantern,  and  the  light,  feeble 
though  it  was,  threw  into  outline  against  the  darkness 
a  pith  helmet  and  a  very  English  figure.  Certainly, 
too,  Shere  Ali  spoke  the  Pushtu  tongue  with  a  slight 
hesitation,  and  an  unfamiliar  accent.  He  seemed  to 
grope  for  words. 

"  A  letter  ?  "  he  cried.  "  From  Calcutta  ?  Nay,  how 
can  that  be?  Some  foolish  fellow  has  dared  to  play 
a  trick,"  and  in  a  few  short,  effective  sentences  Safdar 
Khan  expressed  his  opinion  of  the  foolish  fellow  and 
of  his  ancestry  distant  and  immediate. 

"Yet  the  letter  bade  me  seek  you  by  the  Delhi  Gate 
of  Lahore,"  continued  Shere  Ali  calmly,  "and  by  the 
Delhi  Gate  of  Lahore  I  found  you." 

"My  fame  is  great,"  replied  Safdar  Khan  bom- 
bastically. "Far  and  wide  it  ha-«  spread  like  the 
boughs  of  a  gigantic  tree." 

122 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  LAHORE 

"Rubbish,"  said  Shere  Ali  curtly,  breaking  in  upon 
Safdar's  vehemence.  "I  am  not  one  of  the  Hindu 
fools  who  fill  your  begging-bowl,"  and  he  laughed. 

In  the  darkness  he  heard  Safdar  Khan  laugh  too. 

"You  expected  me,"  continued  Shere  Ali.  "You 
looked  for  my  coming.  Your  ears  were  listening  for 
the  few  words  of  Pushtu.  Why  else  should  you  say, 
*Ride  forward  and  I  will  follow'  ?" 

Safdar  Khan  walked  for  a  little  while  in  silence.  Then 
in  a  voice  of  humility,  he  said: 

"I  will  tell  my  lord  the  truth.  Yes,  some  foolish 
talk  has  passed  from  one  man  to  another,  and  has  been 
thrown  back  again  like  a  ball.  I  too,"  he  admitted, 
"  have  been  without  wisdom.  But  I  have  seen  how  vain 
such  talk  is.  The  Mullahs  in  the  Hills  speak  only  ig- 
norance and  folly." 

"Ah!"  said  Shere  Ali.  He  took  the  letter  from  his 
pocket  and  tore  it  into  fragments  and  scattered  the  frag- 
ments upon  the  Road.  "So  I  thought.  The  letter  is 
of  their  prompting." 

"  My  lord,  it  may  be  so,"  replied  Safdar  Khan.  "  For 
my  part  I  have  no  lot  or  share  in  any  of  these  things. 
For  I  am  now  of  Lahore." 

"Aye,"  said  Shere  Ali.  "The  begging-bowl  is  filled 
to  overflowing  at  the  Delhi  Gate.  So  you  are  of  La- 
hore, though  your  name  is  Safdar  Khan  and  you  were 
born  at  Kohara,"  and  suddenly  he  leaned  down  and 
asked  in  a  wistful  voice  with  a  great  curiosity,  "Are 

123 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

you  content?  Have  you  forgotten  the  hills  and  val- 
leys?    Is  Lahore  more  to  you  than  Chiltistan?" 

So  perpetually  had  Shere  All's  mind  run  of  late  upon 
his  isolation  that  it  crept  into  all  his  thoughts.  So 
now  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  some  vague  par- 
allel between  his  mental  state  and  that  of  Safdar  Khan. 
But  Safdar  Khan's  next  words  disabused  him: 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  said.  ''But  the  widow  of  a  rich 
merchant  in  the  city  here,  a  devout  and  holy  woman, 
has  been  greatly  moved  by  my  piety.     She  seeks  my 

hand  in  marriage  and "  here  Safdar  Khan  laughed 

pleasantly — "I  shall  marry  her.  Already  she  has 
given  me  a  necklace  of  price  which  I  have  had  weighed 
and  tested  to  prove  that  she  does  not  play  me  false. 
She  is  very  rich,  and  it  is  too  hot  to  sit  in  the  sun  under 
a  blanket.  So  I  will  be  a  merchant  of  Lahore  instead, 
and  live  at  my  ease  on  the  upper  balcony  of  my  house." 

Shere  Ali  laughed  and  answered,  "It  is  well." 
Then  he  added  shrewdly:  "But  it  is  possible  that  you 
may  yet  at  some  time  meet  the  man  in  Calcutta  who 
wrote  the  letter  to  me.  If  so,  tell  him  what  I  did  with 
it,"  and  Shere  All's  voice  became  hard  and  stern.  "  Tell 
him  that  I  tore  it  up  and  scattered  it  in  the  dust.  And 
let  him  send  the  news  to  the  Mullahs  in  the  Hills.  I 
know  that  soft-handed  brood  with  their  well-fed  bodies 
and  their  treacherous  mouths.  If  only  they  would  let 
me  carry  on  the  road!"  he  cried  passionately,  "I  would 
drag  them  out  of  the  houses  where  they  batten  on  poor 

124 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  LAHORE 

men's  families  and  set  them  to  work  till  the  palms  of 
their  hands  were  honestly  blistered.  Let  the  Mullahs 
have  a  care,  Safdar  Khan.  I  go  North  to-morrow  to 
Kohara." 

He  spoke  with  a  greater  vehemence  than  perhaps 
he  had  meant  to  show.  But  he  was  carried  along  by 
his  own  words,  and  sought  always  a  stronger  epithet 
than  that  which  he  had  used.  He  was  sore  and  indig- 
nant, and  he  vented  his  anger  on  the  first  object  which 
served  him  as  an  opportunity.  Safdar  Khan  bowed 
his  head  in  the  darkness.  Safe  though  he  might  be  in 
Lahore,  he  was  still  afraid  of  the  Mullahs,  afraid  of 
their  curses,  and  mindful  of  their  power  to  ruin  the 
venturesome  man  who  dared  to  stand  against  them. 

"It  shall  be  as  your  Highness  wishes,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  and  he  hurried  away  from  Shere  All's  side. 
Abuse  of  the  Mullahs  was  dangerous — as  dangerous  to 
listen  to  as  to  speak.  Who  knew  but  what  the  very 
leaves  of  the  neem  trees  might  whisper  the  words  and 
bear  witness  against  him  ?  Moreover,  it  was  clear  that 
the  Prince  of  Chiltistan  was  a  Sahib.  Shere  Ali  rode 
back  to  Government  House.  He  understood  clearly 
why  Safdar  Khan  had  so  unceremoniously  fled;  and 
he  was  glad.  If  the  fool  of  a  Commissioner  did  not 
know  him  for  what  he  was,  at  all  events  Safdar  Khan 
did.  He  was  one  of  the  White  People.  For  who  else 
would  dare  to  speak  as  he  had  spoken  of  the  Mullahs  ? 
The  Mullahs  would  hear  what  he  had  said.     That  was 

125 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

certain.  They  would  hear  it  with  additions.  They 
would  try  to  make  things  unpleasant  for  him  in  Chil- 
tistan  in  consequence.  But  Shere  Ali  was  glad.  For 
their  very  opposition — in  so  loverlike  a  way  did  every 
thought  somehow  reach  out  to  Violet  Oliver — brought 
him  a  little  nearer  to  the  lady  who  held  his  heart.  He 
found  the  Commissioner  sealing  up  his  letters  in  his 
office. 

That  unobservant  man  had  just  written  at  length, 
privately  and  confidentially,  both  to  the  I^ieutenant- 
Governor  of  the  Punjab  at  the  hill-station  and  to  the 
Resident  at  Kohara.  And  to  both  he  had  written  to 
the  one  effect: 

"We  must  expect  trouble  in  Chiltistan." 
He  based  his  conclusions  upon  the  glimpse  which  he 
had  obtained  into  the  troubled  feelings  of  Shere  Ali. 
The  next  morning  Shere  Ali  travelled  northwards  and 
forty-eight  hours  later  from  the  top  of  the  Malakand 
Pass  he  saw  winding  across  the  Swat  valley  past  Chak- 
dara  the  road  which  reached  to  Kohara  and  there 
stopped. 


126 


CHAPTER  XII 


ON  THE   POLO-GROUND 


Violet  Oliver  travelled  to  India  in  the  late  autumn  of 
that  year,  free  from  apprehension.  Somewhere  beyond 
the  high  snow-passes  Shere  Ali  would  be  working  out 
his  destiny  among  his  own  people.  She  was  not  of 
those  who  seek  publicity  either  for  themselves  or  for 
their  gowns  in  the  daily  papers.  Shere  Ali  would  never 
hear  of  her  visit ;  she  was  safe.  She  spent  her  Christmas 
in  Calcutta,  saw  the  race  for  the  Viceroy's  Cup  run 
without  a  fear  that  on  that  crowded  racecourse  the  im- 
portunate figure  of  the  young  Prince  of  Chiltistan  might 
emerge  to  reproach  her,  and  a  week  later  went  north- 
wards into  the  United  Provinces.  It  was  a  year,  now 
some  while  past,  w^hen  a  royal  visitor  came  from  a 
neighbouring  country  into  India.  And  in  his  honour 
at  one  great  city  in  those  Provinces  the  troops  gathered 
and  the  tents  went  up.  little  towns  of  canvas,  gay 
with  bordered  walks  and  flowers,  were  dotted  on  the 
dusty  plains  about  and  within  the  city.  Great  ministers 
and  functionaries  came  with  their  retinues  and  their 
guests.  Native  princes  from  Rajputana  brought  their 
elephants  and  their  escorts.  Thither  also  came  Violet 
Oliver.     It  was,  indeed,  to  attend  this  Durbar  that  she 

127 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

had  been  invited  out  from  England.  She  stayed  in  a 
small  camp  on  the  great  Parade  Ground  where  the 
tents  faced  one  another  in  a  single  street,  each  with  its 
little  garden  of  grass  and  flowers  before  the  door.  The 
ends  of  the  street  were  closed  in  by  posts,  and  outside 
the  posts  sentries  were  placed. 

It  was  a  week  of  bright,  sunlit,  rainless  days,  and  of 
starry  nights.  It  was  a  week  of  reviews  and  State 
functions.  But  it  was  also  a  week  during  which  the 
best  polo  to  be  seen  in  India  drew  the  visitors  each 
afternoon  to  the  club-ground.  There  was  no  more 
constant  attendant  than  Violet  Oliver.  She  under- 
stood the  game  and  followed  it  with  a  nice  appreciation 
of  the  player's  skill.  The  first  round  of  the  competi- 
tion had  been  played  off  on  the  third  day,  but  a  native 
team  organised  by  the  ruler  of  a  Mohammedan  State  in 
Central  India  had  drawn  a  by  and  did  not  appear  in 
the  contest  until  the  fourth  day.  Mrs.  Oliver  took  her 
seat  in  the  front  row  of  the  stand,  as  the  opposing  teams 
cantered  into  the  field  upon  their  ponies.  A  programme 
was  handed  to  her,  but  she  did  not  open  it.  For  al- 
ready one  of  the  umpires  had  tossed  the  ball  into  the 
middle  of  the  ground.     The  game  had  begun. 

The  native  team  was  matched  against  a  regiment  of 
Dragoons,  and  from  the  beginning  it  was  plain  that  the 
four  English  players  were  the  stronger  team.  But  on 
the  other  side  there  was  one  who  in  point  of  skill  out- 
stripped them  all.    He  was  stationed  on  the  outside  of 

128 


ON  THE  POLO-GUOUND 

the  field  farthest  away  from  Violet  Oliver.  He  was  a 
young  man,  almost  a  boy,  she  judged;  he  was  beauti- 
fully mounted,  and  he  sat  his  pony  as  though  he  and  it 
were  one.  He  was  quick  to  turn,  quick  to  pass  the  ball; 
and  he  never  played  a  dangerous  game.  A  desire  that 
the  native  team  should  win  woke  in  her  and  grew  strong 
just  because  of  that  slim  youth's  extraordinary  skill. 
Time  after  time  he  relieved  his  side,  and  once,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  he  picked  the  ball  out  of  the  very  goal- 
posts. The  bugle,  she  remembered  afterwards,  had 
just  sounded.  He  drove  the  ball  out  from  the  press, 
leaned  over  until  it  seemed  he  must  fall  to  resist  an  op- 
ponent who  tried  to  ride  him  off,  and  then  somehow  he 
shook  himself  free  from  the  tangle  of  polo-sticks  and 
ponies. 

"Oh,  well  done!  well  done!"  cried  Violet  Oliver, 
clenching  her  hands  in  her  enthusiasm.  A  roar  of  ap- 
plause went  up.  He  came  racing  down  the  very  centre 
of  the  ground,  the  long  ends  of  his  white  turban  stream- 
ing out  behind  him  like  a  pennant.  The  seven  other 
players  followed  upon  his  heels  outpaced  and  outplayed. 
He  rode  swinging  his  polo-stick  for  the  stroke,  and  then 
with  clean  hard  blows  sent  the  ball  skimming  through 
the  air  like  a  bird.  Violet  Oliver  watched  him  in  sus- 
pense, dreading  lest  he  should  override  the  ball,  or  that 
his  stroke  should  glance.  But  he  made  no  mistake. 
The  sound  of  the  strokes  rose  clear  and  sharp;  the  ball 
flew  straight.     He  drove  it  between  the  posts,  and  the 

r29 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

players  streamed  in  behind  as  though  through  the  .gate- 
way of  a  beleaguered  town.  He  had  scored  the  first 
goal  of  the  game  at  the  end  of  the  first  chukkur.  He 
cantered  back  to  change  his  pony.  But  this  time  he 
rode  along  the  edge  of  the  stand,  since  on  this  side  the 
ponies  waited  with  their  blankets  thrown  over  their 
saddles  and  the  syces  at  their  heads.  He  ran  his  eyes 
along  the  row  of  onlookers  as  he  cantered  by,  and  sud- 
denly Violet  Oliver  leaned  forward.  She  had  been  in- 
terested merely  in  the  player.  Now  she  was  in- 
terested in  the  man  who  played.  She  was  more  than 
interested.  For  she  felt  a  tightening  of  the  heart  and 
she  caught  her  breath.  "It  could  not  be,"  she  said  to 
herself.  She  could  see  his  face  clearly,  however,  now; 
and  as  suddenly  as  she  had  leaned  forward  she  drew 
back.  She  lowered  her  head,  until  her  broad  hat-brim 
hid  her  face.  She  opened  her  programme,  looked  for 
and  found  the  names  of  the  players.  Shere  Ali's 
stared  her  in  the  face. 

"He  has  broken  his  word,"  she  said  angrily  to  her- 
self, quite  forgetting  that  he  had  given  no  word,  and 
that  she  had  asked  for  none.  Then  she  fell  to  wonder- 
ing whether  or  no  he  had  recognised  her  as  he  rode  past 
the  stand.  She  stole  a  glance  as  he  cantered  back,  but 
Shere  Ali  was  not  looking  towards  her.  She  debated 
whether  she  should  make  an  excuse  and  go  back  to  her 
camp.  But  if  he  had  thought  he  had  seen  her,  he 
would  look  again,  and  her  empty  place  would  be  con- 

130 


ON  THE  POLO-GROUND 

vincing  evidence.  Moreover,  the  teams  had  changed 
goals.  Shere  AU  would  be  playing  on  this  side  of  the 
ground  during  the  next  chukkur  unless  the  Dragoons 
scored  quickly.  Violet  Oliver  kept  her  place,  but  she 
saw  little  of  the  game.  She  watched  Shere  All's  play 
furtively,  however,  hoping  thereby  to  learn  whether  he 
had  noticed  her.  And  in  a  little  while  she  knew.  He 
played  wildly,  his  strokes  had  lost  their  precision,  he 
was  less  quick  to  follow  the  twists  of  the  ball.  Shere 
Ali  had  seen  her.  At  the  end  of  the  game  he  galloped 
quickly  to  the  corner,  and  when  Violet  Oliver  came  out 
of  the  enclosure  she  saw  him  standing,  with  his  long 
overcoat  already  on  his  shoulders,  waiting  for  her. 

Violet  Oliver  separated  herself  from  her  friends  and 
went  forward  towards  him.  She  held  out  her  hand. 
Shere  Ali  hesitated  and  then  took  it.  All  through  the 
game,  pride  had  been  urging  him  to  hold  his  head  high 
and  seek  not  so  much  as  a  single  word  with  her.  But 
he  had  been  alone  for  six  months  in  Chiltistan  and  he 
was  young. 

"You  might  have  let  me  know,''  he  said,  in  a  troubled 
voice. 

Violet  Oliver  faltered  out  some  beginnings  of  an  ex- 
cuse. She  did  not  want  to  bring  him  away  from  his 
work  in  Chiltistan.  But  Shere  Ali  was  not  listening  to 
the  excuses. 

"I  must  see  you  again,"  he  said.     "I  must." 

"No  doubt  we  shall  meet,"  replied  Violet  Oliver. 

131 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"To-morrow,"  continued  Shere  Ali.  "To-morrow 
evening.     You  will  be  going  to  the  Fort." 

There  was  to  be  an  investiture,  and  after  the  investi- 
ture a  great  reception  in  the  Fort  on  the  evening  of  the 
next  day.  It  would  be  as  good  a  place  as  any,  thought 
Violet  Oliver — nay,  a  better  place.  There  would  be 
crowds  of  people  wandering  about  the  Fort.  Since 
they  must  meet,  let  it  be  there  and  soon. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "To-morrow  evening,"  and 
she  passed  on  and  rejoined  her  friends. 


132 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   INVIDIOUS   BAR 

Violet  Oliver  drove  back  to  her  camp  in  the  com- 
pany of  her  friends  and  they  remarked  upon  her  silence. 

"You  are  tired,  Violet?"  her  hostess  asked  of  her. 

"A  little,  perhaps,"  Violet  admitted,  and,  urging 
fatigue  as  her  excuse,  she  escaped  to  her  tent.  There 
she  took  counsel  of  her  looking-glass. 

"1  couldn't  possibly  have  foreseen  that  he  would  be 
here,"  she  pleaded  to  her  reflection.  "  He  was  to  have 
stayed  in  Chiltistan.  I  asked  him  and  he  told  me  that 
he  meant  to  stay.  If  he  had  stayed  there,  he  would 
never  have  known  that  I  was  in  India,"  and  she  added 
and  repeated,  "It's  really  not  my  fault." 

In  a  word  she  was  distressed  and  sincerely  distressed. 
But  it  was  not  upon  her  own  account.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  the  awkwardness  to  her  of  this  unexpected 
encounter.  But  she  realised  that  she  had  given  pain 
where  she  had  meant  not  to  give  pain.  Shere  Ali  had 
seen  her.  He  had  been  assured  that  she  sought  to 
avoid  him.  And  this  was  not  the  end.  She  must  go 
on  and  give  more  pain. 

Violet  Oliver  had  hoped  and  believed  that  her  friend- 
ship with  the  young  Prince  was  something  which  had 

133 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

gone  quite  out  of  her  life.  She  had  closed  it  and  put  it 
away,  as  you  put  away  upon  an  upper  shelf  a  book 
which  you  do  not  mean  to  read  again.  The  last  word 
had  been  spoken  eight  months  ago  in  the  conservatory 
of  Lady  Marfield's  house.  And  behold  they  had  met 
again.  There  must  be  yet  another  meeting,  yet  an- 
other last  interview.  And  from  that  last  interview 
nothing  but  pain  could  come  to  Shere  Ali.  Therefore 
she  anticipated  it  with  a  great  reluctance.  Violet 
Oliver  did  not  live  among  illusions.  She  was  no  senti- 
mentalist. She  never  made  up  and  rehearsed  in  imag- 
ination little  scenes  of  a  melting  pathos  where  eternal 
adieux  were  spoken  amid  tears.  She  had  no  appre- 
ciation of  the  woeful  luxury  of  last  interviews.  On 
the  contrary,  she  hated  to  confront  distress  or  pain.  It 
was  in  her  character  always  to  take  the  easier  way 
when  trouble  threatened.  She  would  have  avoided 
altogether  this  meeting  with  Shere  Ali,  had  it  been 
possible. 

"It's  a  pity,"  she  said,  and  that  was  all.  She  was 
reluctant,  but  she  had  no  misgiving.  Shere  Ali  was  to 
her  still  the  youth  to  whom  she  had  said  good-bye  in 
Lady  Marfield's  conservatory.  She  had  seen  him  in 
the  flush  of  victory  after  a  close-fought  game,  and  thus 
she  had  seen  him  often  enough  before.  It  was  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  she  noted  no  difference  at  that 
moment. 

But  the  difference  was  there  for  the  few  who  had  eyes 

134 


THE  INVIDIOUS  BAR 

to  see.  He  had  journeyed  up  the  broken  road  into 
Chiltistan.  At  the  Fort  of  Chakdara,  in  the  rice  fields 
on  the  banks  of  the  Swat  river,  he  had  taken  his  luncheon 
one  day  with  the  English  commandant  and  the  English 
doctor,  and  there  he  had  parted  with  the  ways  of  life 
which  had  become  to  him  the  only  ways.  He  had  trav- 
elled thence  for  a  few  hundred  yards  along  a  straight  strip 
of  road  running  over  level  ground,  and  so  with  the  levies 
of  Dir  to  escort  him  he  swung  round  to  the  left.  A  screen 
of  hillside  and  grey  rock  moved  across  the  face  of  the 
country  behind  him.  The  last  outpost  was  left  behind. 
The  Fort  and  the  Signal  Tower  on  the  pinnacle  op- 
posite and  the  English  flag  flying  over  all  were  hidden 
from  his  sight.  Wretched  as  any  exile  from  his  native 
land,  Shere  Ali  went  up  into  the  lower  passes  of  the 
Himalayas.  Days  were  to  pass  and  still  the  high  snow- 
peaks  which  glittered  in  the  sky,  gold  in  the  noonday, 
silver  in  the  night  time,  above  the  valleys  of  Chiltistan 
were  to  be  hidden  in  the  far  North.  But  already  the 
words  began  to  be  spoken  and  the  little  incidents  to 
occur  which  were  to  ripen  him  for  his  destiny.  They 
were  garnered  into  his  memories  as  separate  and  un- 
related events.  It  was  not  until  afterwards  that  he 
came  to  know  how  deeply  they  had  left  their  marks, 
or  that  he  set  them  in  an  ordered  sequence  and  gave  to 
them  a  particular  significance.  Even  at  the  Fort  of 
Chakdara  a  beginning  had  been  made. 

Shere  Ali  was  standing  in  the  little  battery  on  the 

135 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

very  summit  of  the  Fort.  Below  him  was  the  oblong 
enclosure  of  the  men's  barracks,  the  stone  landings  and 
steps,  the  iron  railings,  the  numbered  doors.  He  looked 
down  into  the  enclosure  as  into  a  well.  It  might  al- 
most have  been  a  section  of  the  barracks  at  Chatham. 
But  Shere  Ali  raised  his  head,  and,  over  against  him, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  a  natural  gateway  in  the  hills, 
rose  the  steep  slope  and  the  Signal  Tower. 

"  I  was  here,"  said  the  Doctor,  who  stood  behind  him, 
"during  the  Malakand  campaign.  You  remember 
it,  no  doubt?" 

"I  was  at  Oxford.  I  remember  it  well,"  said  Shere 
Ali. 

"We  were  hard  pressed  here,  but  the  handful  of  men 
in  the  Signal  Tower  had  the  worst  of  it,"  continued  the 
Doctor  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice.  "It  was  reckoned 
that  there  were  fourteen  thousand  men  from  the  Swat 
Valley  besieging  us,  and  as  they  did  not  mind  how  many 
they  lost,  even  with  the  Maxims  and  our  wire  defences 
it  was  difficult  to  keep  them  off.  We  had  to  hold  on  to 
the  Signal  Tower  because  we  could  communicate  with 
the  people  on  the  Malakand  from  there,  w^hile  we 
couldn't  from  the  Fort  itself.  The  Amandara  ridge, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  as  you  can  see,  just  hides 
the  Pass  from  us.  Well,  the  handful  of  men  in  the 
tower  managed  to  keep  in  communication  with  the 
main  force,  and  this  is  how  it  was  done.  A  Sepoy  called 
Prem  Singh  used  to  come  out  into  full  view  of  the  enemy 

136 


THE  INVIDIOUS   BAR 

through  a  porthole  of  the  tower,  deliberately  set  up  his 
apparatus,  and  heliograph  away  to  the  main  force  in 
the  Malakand  Camp,  with  the  Swatis  firing  at  him  from 
short  range.  How  it  was  he  was  not  hit,  I  could  never 
understand.  He  did  it  day  after  day.  It  was  the 
bravest  and  coolest  thing  I  ever  saw  done  or  ever  heard 
of,  with  one  exception,  perhaps.     Prem  Singh  would 

have   got   the   Victoria    Cross "   and    the    Doctor 

stopped  suddenly  and  his  face  flushed. 

Shere  Ali,  however,  was  too  keenly  interested  in  the 
incident  itself  to  take  any  note  of  the  narrator's  con- 
fusion. Baldly  though  it  was  told,  there  was  the  square, 
strong  tower  with  its  door  six  feet  from  the  ground,  its 
machicoulis,  its  narrow  portholes  over  against  him, 
to  give  life  and  vividness  to  the  story.  Here  that  brave 
deed  had  been  done  and  daily  repeated.  Shere  Ali 
peopled  the  empty  slopes  which  ran  down  from  the  tower 
to  the  river  and  the  high  crags  beyond  the  tower  with 
the  hordes  of  white-clad  Swatis,  all  in  their  finest  robes, 
like  men  who  have  just  reached  the  goal  of  a  holy  pil- 
grimage, as  indeed  they  had.  He  saw  their  standards, 
he  heard  the  din  of  their  firearms,  and  high  above  them 
on  the  wall  of  the  tower  he  saw  the  khaki-clad  figure  of 
a  single  Sepoy  calmly  flashing  across  the  valley  news  of 
the  defenders'  plight. 

"Didn't  he  get  the  Victoria  Cross?"  he  asked. 

''No,"  returned  the  Doctor  with  a  certain  awkward- 
ness.    But  still  Shere  Ali  did  not  notice. 

137 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"And  what  was  the  exception?''  he  asked  eagerly. 
"What  was  the  other  brave  deed  you  have  seen  fit  to 
rank  with  this?" 

"That,  too,  happened  over  there,"  said  the  Doctor, 
seizing  upon  the  question  with  reHef.  "During  the 
early  days  of  the  siege  we  were  able  to  send  in  to  the 
tower  water  and  food.  But  when  the  first  of  August 
came  we  could  help  them  no  more.  The  enemy 
thronged  too  closely  round  us,  we  were  attacked  by 
night  and  by  day,  and  stone  sangars,  in  which  the  Swatis 
lay  after  dark,  were  built  between  us  and  the  tower. 
We  sent  up  water  to  the  tower  for  the  last  time  at  half- 
past  nine  on  a  Saturday  morning,  and  it  was  not  until 
half-past  four  on  the  Monday  afternoon  that  the  reliev- 
ing force  marched  across  the  bridge  down  there  and 
set  us  free." 

"They  were  without  water  for  all  that  time — and  in 
August?"  cried  Shere  Ali. 

"  No,"  the  Doctor  answered.  "  But  they  would  have 
been  had  the  Sepoy  not  found  his  equal.  A  bheestie" 
— and  he  nodded  his  head  to  emphasise  the  word — "not 
a  soldier  at  all,  but  a  mere  water-carrier,  a  mere  camp- 
follower,  volunteered  to  go  down  to  the  river.  He  crept 
out  of  the  tower  after  nightfall  with  his  water-skins, 
crawled  down  between  the  sangars — and  I  can  tell  you 
the  hill-side  was  thick  with  them — to  the  brink  of  the 
Swat  river  below  there,  filled  his  skins,  and  returned 
with  them." 

138 


THE  INVIDIOUS  BAR 

"That  man,  too,  earned  the  Victoria  Cross,"  said 
Shere   AH. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "no  doubt,  no  doubt." 

Something  of  flurry  was  again  audible  in  his  voice, 
and  this  time  Shere  AK  noticed  it. 

"  Earned — but  did  not  get  it  ?"  he  went  on  slowly;  and 
turning  to  the  Doctor  he  waited  quietly  for  an  answer. 
The  answer  was  given  reluctantly,  after  a  pause. 

"Well!    That  is  so." 

"Why?" 

The  question  was  uttered  sharply,  close  upon  the 
words  which  had  preceded  it.  The  Doctor  looked  upon 
the  ground,  shifted  his  feet,  and  looked  up  again.  He 
was  a  young  man,  and  inexperienced.  The  question 
was  repeated. 

"Why?" 

The  Doctor's  confusion  increased.  He  recognised 
that  his  delay  in  answering  only  made  the  answer  more 
difficult  to  give.  It  could  not  be  evaded.  He  blurted 
out  the  truth  apologetically. 

"Well,  you  see,  we  don't  give  the  Victoria  Cross  to 
natives." 

Shere  Ali  was  silent  for  a  while.  He  stood  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  tower,  his  face  quite  inscrutable. 

"Yes,  I  guessed  that  would  be  the  reason,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"Well,"  said  his  companion  uncomfortably,  "I  ex- 
pect some  day  that  will  be  altered." 

139 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Shere  Ali  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  to  go 
down.  At  the  gateway  of  the  Fort,  by  the  wire  bridge, 
his  escort,  mounted  upon  their  horses,  waited  for  him. 
He  cHmbed  into  the  saddle  without  a  word.  He  had 
been  labouring  for  these  last  days  under  a  sense  of  in- 
jury, and  his  thoughts  had  narrowed  in  upon  himself. 
He  was  thinking.  *'I,  too,  then,  could  never  win  that 
prize."  His  conviction  that  he  was  really  one  of  the 
\Vliite  People,  bolstered  up  as  it  had  been  by  so  many 
vain  arguments,  was  put  to  the  test  of  fact.  The  truth 
shone  in  upon  his  mind.  For  here  was  a  coveted  privi- 
lege of  the  White  People  from  which  he  was  debarred, 
he  and  the  bheestie  and  the  Sepoy.  They  were  all  one, 
he  thought  bitterly,  to  the  White  People.  The  invidious 
bar  of  his  colour  was  not  to  be  broken. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  leaning  down  from  his  saddle 
and  holding  out  his  hand.     "Thank  you  very  much." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  Doctor  and  cantered  down 
the  road,  with  a  smile  upon  his  face.  But  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  invidious  bar  was  rankling  cruelly  at 
his  heart,  and  it  continued  to  rankle  long  after  he  had 
swung  round  the  bend  of  the  road  and  had  lost  sight  of 
Chakdara  and  the  English  flag. 

He  passed  through  Jandol  and  climbed  the  Lowari 
Pass  among  the  fir  trees  and  the  pines,  and  on  the  very 
summit  he  met  three  men  clothed  in  brown  homespun 
with  their  hair  clubbed  at  the  sides  of  their  heads.  Each 
man  carried  a  rifle  on  his  back  and  two  of  them  carried 

140 


THE  INVIDIOUS   BAii 

swords  besides,  and  they  wore  sandals  of  grass  upon 
their  feet.  They  were  talking  as  they  went,  and  they 
were  talking  in  the  Chilti  tongue.  Shere  Ali  hailed 
them  and  bade  them  stop. 

"On  what  journey  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  and 
one  of  the  three  bowed  low  and  answered  him. 

"Sir,  we  are  going  to  Mecca." 

"To  Mecca!"  exclaimed  Shere  Ali.  "How  will  you 
ever  get  to  Mecca  ?     Have  you  money  ?  " 

"Sir,  we  have  each  six  rupees,  and  with  six  rupees  a 
man  may  reach  Mecca  from  Kurrachee.  Till  we  reach 
Kurrachee,  there  is  no  fear  that  we  shall  starve.  Dwell- 
ers in  the  villages  will  befriend  us." 

"Why,  that  is  true,"  said  Shere  Ali,  "but  since  you 
are  countrymen  of  my  own  and  my  father's  subjects, 
you  shall  not  tax  too  heavily  your  friends  upon  the 
road." 

He  added  to  their  scanty  store  of  rupees,  and  one 
after  another  they  thanked  him  and  so  went  cheerily 
down  the  Pass.  Shere  Ali  watched  them  as  they  went, 
wondering  that  men  should  take  such  a  journey  and 
endure  so  much  discomfort  for  their  faith.  He  watched 
their  dwindling  figures  and  understood  how  far  he  was 
set  apart  from  them.     He  was  of  their  faith  himself, 

nominally  at  all  events,  but  Mecca ?     He  shrugged 

his  shoulders  at  the  name.  It  meant  no  more  to  him 
than  it  did  to  the  White  People  who  had  cast  him  out. 
But  that  chance  meeting  lingered  in  his  memory,  and 

141 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

as  he  travelled  northwards,  he  would  wonder  at  times 
by  night  at  what  village  his  three  countrymen  slept  and 
by  day  whether  their  faith  still  cheered  them  on  their 
road. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  borders  of  Chiltistan,  and 
travelled  thenceforward  through  a  country  rich  with 
orchards  and  green  rice  and  golden  amaranth.  The 
terraced  slopes  of  the  mountains,  ablaze  with  wild  in- 
digo, closed  in  upon  him  and  widened  out.  Above  the 
terraces  great  dark  forests  of  pines  and  deodars,  maples 
and  horse  chestnuts  clung  to  the  hill  sides;  and  above 
the  forests  grass  slopes  stretched  up  to  bare  rock  and  the 
snowfields.  From  the  villages  the  people  came  out  to 
meet  him,  and  here  and  there  from  some  castle  of  a 
greater  importance  a  chieftain  would  ride  out  with  his 
bodyguard,  gay  in  velvets,  and  silks  from  Bokhara  and 
chogas  of  gold  kinkob,  and  offer  to  him  gold  dust  twisted 
up  in  the  petal  of  a  flower,  which  he  touched  and  re- 
mitted. He  was  escorted  to  polo-grounds  and  sat  for 
hours  witnessing  sports  and  trials  of  skill,  and  at  night 
to  the  music  of  kettledrums  and  pipes  men  and  boys 
danced  interminably  before  him.  There  was  one  even- 
ing which  he  particularly  remembered.  He  had  set 
up  his  camp  outside  a  large  village  and  was  sitting  alone 
by  his  fire  in  the  open  air.  The  night  was  very  still, 
the  sky  dark  but  studded  with  stars  extraordinarily 
bright — so  bright,  indeed,  that  Shere  Ali  could  see  upon 
the  water  of  the  river  below  the  low  cliff  on  which  his 

142 


THE  INVIDIOUS  BAR 

camp  fire  was  lit  a  trembling  golden  path  made  by  the 
rays  of  a  planet.  And  as  he  sat,  unexpectedly  in  the 
hush  a  boy  with  a  clear,  sweet  voice  began  to  sing  from 
the  darkness  behind  him.  The  melody  was  plaintive 
and  sweet;  a  few  notes  of  a  pipe  accompanied  him; 
and  as  Shere  Ali  listened  in  this  high  valley  of  the 
Himalayas  on  a  summer^s  night,  the  music  took  hold 
upon  him  and  wrung  his  heart.  The  yearning  for  all 
that  he  had  left  behind  became  a  pain  almost  beyond 
endurance.  The  days  of  his  boyhood  and  his  youth 
went  by  before  his  eyes  in  a  glittering  procession.  His 
school  life,  his  first  summer  term  at  Oxford,  the  Cher- 
well  with  the  shadows  of  the  branches  overhead  dap- 
pling the  water,  the  strenuous  week  of  the  Eights,  his 
climbs  with  Linforth,  and,  above  all,  London  in  June, 
a  Lx)ndon  bright  with  lilac  and  sunshine  and  the  fair 
faces  of  women,  crowded  in  upon  his  memory.  He 
had  been  steadily  of  late  refusing  to  remember,  but  the 
sweet  voice  and  the  plaintive  melody  had  caught  him 
unawares.  The  ghosts  of  his  dead  pleasures  trooped 
out  and  took  life  and  substance.  Particular  hours  were 
lived  through  again — a  motor  ride  alone  with  Violet 
Oliver  to  Pangbourne,  a  dinner  on  the  lawn  outside  the 
inn,  the  drive  back  to  London  in  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing. It  all  seemed  very  far  away  to-night.  Shere  Ali 
sat  late  beside  his  fire,  nor  when  he  went  into  his  tent 
did  he  close  his  eyes. 

The  next  morning  he  rode  among  orchards  bright 

143 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

with  apricots  and  mulberries,  peaches  and  white  grapes, 
and  in  another  day  he  looked  down  from  a  high  cliff, 
across  which  the  road  was  carried  on  a  scaffolding,  upon 
the  town  of  Kohara  and  the  castle  of  his  father  rising 
in  terraces  upon  a  hill  behind.  The  nobles  and  their 
followers  came  out  to  meet  him  with  courteous  words 
and  protestations  of  good  will.  But  they  looked  him 
over  with  curious  and  not  too  friendly  eyes.  News  had 
gone  before  Shere  Ali  that  the  young  Prince  of  Chiltis- 
tan  was  coming  to  Kohara  wearing  the  dress  of  the 
White  People.  They  saw  that  the  news  was  true,  but 
no  word  or  comment  was  uttered  in  his  hearing.  Joking 
and  laughing  they  escorted  him  to  the  gates  of  his 
father's  palace.  Thus  Shere  Ali  at  the  last  had  come 
home  to  Kohara.  Of  the  life  which  he  lived  there  he 
was  to  tell  something  to  Violet  Oliver. 


144 


CHAPTER  XIV 


IN  THE   COURTYARD 


The  investiture  was  over,  and  the  guests,  thronging 
from  the  Hall  of  Audience,  came  out  beneath  arches 
and  saw  the  whole  length  of  the  great  marble  court 
spread  before  them.  A  vast  canopy  roofed  it  in,  and  a 
soft  dim  light  pervaded  it.  To  those  who  came  from 
the  glitter  of  the  ceremonies  it  brought  a  sense  of  coolness 
and  of  peace.  From  the  arches  a  broad  flight  of  steps 
led  downwards  to  the  floor,  where  water  gleamed  darkly 
in  a  marble  basin.  Lilies  floated  upon  its  surface,  and 
marble  paths  crossed  it  to  the  steps  at  the  far  end;  and 
here  and  there,  in  its  depth,  the  reflection  of  a  lamp 
burned  steadily.  At  the  far  end  steps  rose  again  to  a 
great  platform  and  to  gilded  arches  through  which 
lights  poured  in  a  blaze,  and  gave  to  that  end  almost 
the  appearance  of  a  lighted  stage,  and  made  of  the 
courtyard  a  darkened  auditorium.  From  one  flight  of 
steps  to  the  other,  in  the  dim  cool  light,  the  guests 
passed  across  the  floor  of  the  court,  soldiers  in  uniforms, 
civilians  in  their  dress  of  state,  jewelled  princes  of  the 
native  kingdoms,  ladies  in  their  bravest  array.  But 
now  and  again  one  or  two  would  slip  from  the  throng, 
and,  leaving  the  procession,  take  their  own  way  about 

145 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  Fort.  Among  those  who  sKpped  away  was  Violet 
OUver.  She  went  to  the  side  of  the  courtyard  where  a 
couch  stood  empty.  There  she  seated  herself  and 
waited.  In  front  of  her  the  stream  of  people  passed  by 
talking  and  laughing,  within  view,  within  earshot  if 
only  one  raised  one's  voice  a  trifle  above  the  ordinary 
note.  Yet  there  was  no  other  couch  near.  One  might 
talk  at  will  and  not  be  overheard.  It  was,  to  Violet 
Oliver's  thinking,  a  good  strategic  position,  and  there 
she  proposed  to  remain  till  Shere  Ali  found  her,  and 
after  he  had  found  her,  until  he  went  away. 

She  wondered  in  what  guise  he  would  come  to  her: 
a  picturesque  figure  with  a  turban  of  some  delicate 
shade  upon  his  head  and  pearls  about  his  throat,  or — 
as  she  wondered,  a  young  man  in  the  evening  dress  of 
an  Englishman  stepped  aside  from  the  press  of  visitors 
and  came  towards  her.  Before  she  could,  in  that  dim 
light,  distinguish  his  face,  she  recognised  him  by  the 
lightness  of  his  step  and  the  suppleness  of  his  figure. 
She  raised  herself  into  a  position  a  little  more  upright, 
and  held  out  her  hand.  She  made  room  for  him  on  the 
couch  beside  her,  and  w^hen  he  had  taken  his  seat,  she 
turned  at  once  to  speak. 

But  Shere  Ali  raised  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

"Hush!"  he  said  with  a  smile;  and  the  smile  pleaded 
with  her  as  much  as  did  his  words.  "Just  for  a  mo- 
ment! We  can  argue  afterwards.  Just  for  a  moment, 
let  us  pretend." 

146 


IN  THE  COURTYARD 

Violet  Oliver  had  expected  anger,  accusations,  pray- 
ers. Even  for  some  threat,  some  act  of  violence,  she  had 
come  prepared.  But  the  quiet  wistfulness  of  his  man- 
ner, as  of  a  man  too  tired  greatly  to  long  for  anything, 
took  her  at  a  disadvantage.  But  the  one  thing  which 
she  surely  understood  was  the  danger  of  pretence. 
There  had  been  too  much  of  pretence  already. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Just  for  a  moment,"  he  insisted.  He  sat  beside 
her,  watching  the  clear  profile  of  her  face,  the  slender 
throat,  the  heavy  masses  of  hair  so  daintily  coiled  upon 
her  head.  "The  last  eight  months  have  not  been — • 
could  not  be.  Yesterday  we  were  at  Richmond,  just 
you  and  I.  It  was  Sunday — you  remember.  I  called 
on  you  in  the  afternoon,  and  for  a  wonder  you  were 
alone.  We  drove  down  together  to  Richmond,  and 
dined  together  in  the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage 
— the  room  with  the  big  windows,  and  the  name  of  the 
woman  who  was  murdered  in  France  scratched  upon 
the  glass.     That  was  yesterday." 

"It  was  last  year,"  said  Violet. 

"Yesterday,"  Shere  Ali  persisted.  "I  dreamt  last 
night  that  I  had  gone  back  to  Chiltistan;  but  it  was 
only  a  dream." 

"It  was  the  truth,"  and  the  quiet  assurance  of  her 
voice  dispelled  Shere  All's  own  effort  at  pretence.  He 
leaned  forward  suddenly,  clasping  his  hands  upon  his 
knees  in  an  attitude  familiar  to  her  as  characteristic 

147 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

of  the  man.     There  was  a  tenseness  which  gave  to 
him  even  in  repose  a  look  of  activity. 

''Well,  it's  the  truth,  then,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  took 
on  an  accent  of  bitterness.  "And  here's  more  truth. 
I  never  thought  to  see  you  here  to-night." 

"Did  you  think  that  I  should  be  afraid?"  asked 
Violet  Oliver  in  a  low,  steady  voice. 

"Afraid!"  Shere  Ali  turned  towards  her  in  sur- 
prise and  met  her  gaze.     "No." 

"Why,  then,  should  I  break  my  word ?  Have  I  done 
it  so  often?" 

Shere  Ali  did  not  answer  her  directly. 

"You  promised  to  write  to  me,"  he  said,  and  Violet 
Oliver  replied  at  once: 

"Yes.     And  I  did  write." 

"You  wrote  twice,"  he  cried  bitterly.  " Oh,  yes,  you 
kept  your  word.  There's  a  post  every  day,  winter  and 
summer,  into  Chiltistan.  Sometimes  an  avalanche  or 
a  snowstorm  delays  it;  but  on  most  days  it  comes.  If 
you  could  only  have  guessed  how  eagerly  I  looked 
forward  to  your  letters,  you  would  have  v^itten,  I 
think,  more  often.  There's  a  path  over  a  high  ridge 
by  which  the  courier  must  come.  I  could  see  it  from 
the  casement  of  the  tower.  I  used  to  watch  it  through 
a  pair  of  field-glasses,  that  I  might  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  man  as  he  rose  against  the  sky.  Each 
day  I  thought  "Perhaps  there's  a  letter  in  your 
handwriting."     And  you  wrote  twice,  and  in  neither 

148 


IN  THE   COURTYARD 

letter  was  there  a  hint  that  you  were  coming  out  to 
India." 

He  was  speaking  in  a  low,  passionate  voice.  In 
spite  of  herself,  Violet  Oliver  was  moved.  The  picture 
of  him  watching  from  his  window  in  the  tower  for  the 
black  speck  against  the  skyline  was  clear  before  her 
mind,  and  troubled  her.     Her  voice  grew  gentle. 

"I  did  not  write  more  often  on  purpose,"  she  said. 

"It  was  on  purpose,  too,  that  you  left  out  all  mention 
of  your  visit  to  India  ?" 

Violet  nodded  her  head. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"You  did  not  want  to  see  me  a^ain  " 

Violet  turned  her  face  towards  him,  and  leaned  for- 
ward a  little. 

"I  don't  say  that,"  she  said  softly.  "But  I  thought 
it  would  be  better  that  we  two  should  not  meet  again, 
if  meeting  could  be  avoided.  I  saw  that  you  cared— 
I  may  say  that,  mayn't  I?"  and  for  a  second  she  laid 
her  hand  gently  upon  his  sleeve.  "I  saw  that  you 
cared  too  much.  It  seemed  to  me  best  that  it  should 
end  altogether." 

Shere  Ali  lifted  his  head,  and  turned  quickly  towards 
her. 

"Why  should  it  end  at  all?"  he  cried.  His  eyes 
kindled  and  sought  hers.  "  Violet,  why  should  it  end  at 
all?" 

Violet  Oliver  drew  back.     She  cast  a  glance  to  the 

149 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

courtyard.  Only  a  few  paces  away  the  stream  of  peo- 
ple passed  up  and  down. 

"It  must  end,"  she  answered.  "You  know  that  as 
well  as  I." 

"I  don't  know  it.  I  won't  know  it,"  he  replied. 
He  reached  out  his  hand  towards  hers,  but  she  was  too 
quick  for  him.     He  bent  nearer  to  her. 

"Violet,"  he  whispered,  "marry  me!" 

Violet  Oliver  glanced  again  to  the  courtyard.  But  it 
was  no  longer  to  assure  herself  that  friends  of  her  own 
race  were  comfortably  near  at  hand.  Now  she  was 
anxious  that  they  should  not  be  near  enough  to  listen 
and  overhear. 

"That's  impossible!"  she  answered  in  a  startled 
voice. 

"It's  not  impossible!  It's  not!"  And  the  despera- 
tion in  his  voice  betrayed  him.  In  the  depths  of  his 
heart  he  knew  that,  for  this  woman,  at  all  events,  it 
was  impossible.  But  he  would  not  listen  to  that 
knowledge. 

"Other  women,  here  in  India,  have  had  the 
courage." 

"And  what  have  their  lives  been  afterwards?"  she 
asked.  She  had  not  herself  any  very  strong  feeling  on 
the  subject  of  colour.  She  was  not  repelled,  as  men  are 
repelled.  But  she  was  aware,  nevertheless,  how  strong 
the  feeling  was  in  others.  She  had  not  lived  in  India 
for  nothing.     Marriage  with  Shere  Ali  was  impossible, 

150 


IN  THE  COURTYARD 

even  had  she  wished  for  it.     It  meant  ostracism  and 
social  suicide. 

"Where  should  I  live?"  she  went  on.  "In  Chiltis- 
tan  ?    What  life  would  there  be  there  for  me  ?" 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  would  not  ask  it.  I  never 
thought  of  it.  In  England.  We  could  live  there!" 
and,  ceasing  to  insist,  he  began  wistfully  to  plead. 
"  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  hated  these  past  months. 
I  used  to  sit  at  night,  alone,  alone,  alone,  eating  my 
heart  for  want  of  you;  for  want  of  everything  I  care 
for.  I  could  not  sleep.  I  used  to  see  the  morning 
break.  Perhaps  here  and  there  a  drum  would  begin 
to  beat,  the  cries  of  children  would  rise  up  from  the 
streets,  and  I  would  lie  in  my  bed  with  my  hands 
clenched,  thinking  of  the  jingle  of  a  hansom  cab 
along  the  streets  of  London,  and  the  gas  lamps 
paling  as  the  grey  light  spread.     Violet  I" 

Violet  twisted  her  hands  one  within  the  other.  This 
was  just  what  she  had  thought  to  avoid,  to  shut  out  from 
her  mind — the  knowledge  that  he  had  suffered.  But  the 
evidence  of  his  pain  was  too  indisputable.  There  was 
no  shutting  it  out.  It  sounded  loud  in  his  voice,  it 
showed  in  his  looks.  His  face  had  grown  white  and 
haggard,  the  face  of  a  tortured  man ;  his  hands  trembled, 
his  eyes  were  fierce  with  longing. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  cried,  and  so  great  was  her  trouble 
that  for  once  she  did  not  choose  her  words.  "  You  know 
that  it's  impossible.     We  can't  alter  these  things." 

151 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

She  meant  by  "these  things"  the  natural  law  that 
white  shall  mate  with  white,  and  brown  with  brown; 
and  so  Shere  Ali  understood  her.  He  ceased  to  plead. 
There  came  a  dreadful  look  upon  his  face. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  exclaimed  brutally.  "You  would 
be  marrying  a  nigger." 

"I  never  said  that,"  Violet  interrupted  hastily. 

"But  you  meant  it,"  and  he  began  to  laugh  bitterly 
and  very  quietly.  To  Violet  that  laughter  was  horrible. 
It  frightened  her.  "Oh,  yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "When 
we  come  over  to  England  we  are  very  fine  people. 
Women  welcome  us  and  are  kind,  men  make  us  their 
friends.  But  out  here!  We  quickly  learn  out  here 
that  we  are  the  inferior  people.  Suppose  that  I  wanted 
to  be  a  soldier,  not  an  officer  of  my  levies,  but  a  soldier 
in  your  army  with  a  soldier's  chances  of  promotion  and 
high  rank!  Do  you  know  what  would  happen?  I 
might  serve  for  twenty  years,  and  at  the  end  of  it  the 
youngest  subaltern  out  of  Sandhurst,  with  a  mous- 
tache he  can't  feel  upon  his  lip,  would  in  case  of  war 
step  over  my  head  and  command  me.  Why,  I  couldn't 
win  the  Victoria  Cross,  even  though  I  had  earned  it 
ten  times  over.  W^e  are  the  subject  races,"  and  he 
turned  to  her  abruptly.  "I  am  in  disfavour  to-night. 
Do  you  know  why?  Because  I  am  not  dressed  in  a 
silk  jacket;  because  I  am  not  wearing  jewels  like  a 
woman,  as  those  Princes  are,"  and  he  waved  his  hand 
contemptuously  towards  a  group  of  them.     "They  are 

152 


IN  THE  COURTYARD 

content,"  he  cried.  "But  I  was  brought  up  in  Eng- 
land, and  I  am  not." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  was  silent;  and 
as  he  sat  thus,  Violet  Oliver  said  to  him  with  a  gentle 
reproach : 

"When  we  parted  in  London  last  year  you  spoke  in 
a  different  way — a  better  way.  I  remember  very  well 
what  you  said.  For  I  was  glad  to  hear  it.  You  said: 
*I  have  not  forgotten  really  that  there  is  much  to  do 
in  my  own  country.  I  have  not  forgotten  that  I  can 
thank  all  of  you  here  who  have  shown  me  so  much 
kindness  by  more  than  mere  words.  For  I  can  help 
in  Chiltistan — I  can  really  help.'" 

Shere  Ali  raised  his  face  from  his  hands  with  the  air 
of  a  man  listening  to  strange  and  curious  words. 

"I  said  that?" 

"Yes,"  and  in  her  turn  Violet  Oliver  began  to  plead. 
"I  wish  that  to-night  you  could  recapture  that  fine 
spirit.  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it.  For  I  am  troubled 
by  your  unhappiness." 

But  Shere  Ali  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  been  in  Chiltistan  since  I  spoke  those  words. 
And  they  will  not  let  me  help." 

"There's  the  road." 

"It  must  not  be  continued." 

"There  is,  at  all  events,  your  father,"  Violet  sug- 
gested.    "You  can  help  him." 

And   again  Shere  Ali  laughed.     But  this  time  the 

153 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

bitterness  had  gone  from  his  voice.  He  laughed  with 
a  sense  of  humour,  almost,  it  seemed  to  Violet,  with 
enjoyment. 

"My  father!"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  you  about  my 
father,"  and  his  face  cleared  for  a  moment  of  its  dis- 
tress as  he  turned  towards  her.  "He  received  me  in 
the  audience  chamber  of  his  palace  at  Kohara.  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  ten  years.  How  do  you  think  he  re- 
ceived me  ?  He  was  sitting  on  a  chair  of  brocade  w^ith 
silver  legs  in  great  magnificence,  and  across  his  knees 
he  held  a  loaded  rifle  at  full  cock.  It  was  a  Snider, 
so  that  I  could  be  quite  sure  it  was  cocked." 

Violet  stared  at  him,  not  understanding. 

"But  why?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  he  knew  quite  well  that  I  was  brought  back 
to  Kohara  in  order  to  replace  him,  if  he  didn't  mend  his 
ways  and  spend  less  money.  And  he  didn't  mean  to 
be  replaced."  The  smile  broke  out  again  on  Shere 
Ali's  face  as  he  remembered  the  scene.  "He  sat  there 
with  his  great  beard,  dyed  red,  spreading  across  his 
chest,  a  long  velvet  coat  covering  his  knees,  and  the 
loaded  rifle  laid  over  the  coat.  His  eyes  watched  me, 
while  his  fingers  played  about  the  trigger." 

Violet  Oliver  was  horrified. 

"You  mean — that  he  meant  to  kill  you!"  she  cried 
incredulously. 

"Yes,"  said  Shere  Ali  calmly.  "I  think  he  meant  to 
do  that.     It's  not  so  very  unusual  in  our  family.     He 

154 


IN  THE  COURTYARD 

probably  thought  that  I  might  try  to  kill  him.  How- 
ever, he  didn't  do  it.  You  see,  my  father's  very  fond 
of  the  English,  so  I  at  once  began  to  talk  to  him  about 
England.  It  was  evening  when  I  went  into  the  recep- 
tion chamber;  but  it  was  broad  daylight  when  I  came 
out.  I  talked  for  my  life  that  night — and  won.  He 
became  so  interested  that  he  forgot  to  shoot  me;  and 
at  the  end  I  was  wise  enough  to  assure  him  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  more  to  tell." 

The  ways  of  the  Princes  in  the  States  beyond  the 
Frontier  were  unknown  to  Violet  Oliver.  The  ruling 
family  of  Chiltistan  was  no  exception  to  the  general 
rule.  In  its  annals  there  was  hardly  a  page  which  was 
not  stained  with  blood.  When  the  son  succeeded  to 
the  throne,  it  was,  as  often  as  not,  after  murdering  his 
brothers,  and  if  he  omitted  that  precaution,  as  often 
as  not  he  paid  the  penalty.  Shere  Ali  was  fortunate 
in  that  he  had  no  brothers.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  a  father,  and  there  was  no  great  security. 
Violet  was  startled,  and  almost  as  much  bewildered 
as  she  was  startled.  She  could  not  understand 
Shere  All's  composure.  He  spoke  in  so  matter-of-fact 
a  tone. 

"However,"  she  said,  grasping  at  the  fact,  "he  has 
not  killed  you.     He  has  not  since  tried  to  kill  you." 

"No.  I  don't  think  he  has,"  said  Shere  Ali  slowly. 
But  he  spoke  like  one  in  doubt.  "You  see  he  realised 
very  soon  that  I  was  not  after  all  acceptable  to  the 

155 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

English.  I  wouldn't  quite  do  what  they  wanted," 
and  the  humour  died  out  of  his  face. 

"What  did  they  want?" 

Shere  Ali  looked  at  her  in  hesitation. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?  I  will.  They  wanted  me  to 
marry — one  of  my  own  people.  They  wanted  me  to 
forget,"  and  he  broke  out  in  a  passionate  scorn.  "As 
if  I  could  do  either — after  I  had  known  you." 

"Hush!"  said  she. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  checked. 

"You  said  it  was  impossible  that  you  should  marry 
me.  It's  no  less  impossible  that  I  should  marry  now 
one  of  my  own  race.  You  know  that.  You  can't  deny 
it." 

Violet  did  not  try  to.  He  was  speaking  truth  then, 
she  was  well  aware.  A  great  pity  swelled  up  in  her 
heart  for  him.  She  turned  to  him  with  a  smile,  in 
which  there  was  much  tenderness.  His  life  was  all 
awry;  and  both  were  quite  helpless  to  set  it  right. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  whisper  of  remorse. 
"I  did  not  think.     I  have  done  you  grave  harm." 

"Not  you,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  may  be  quite 
sure  of  that.  Those  who  have  done  me  harm  are  those 
who  sent  me,  ten  years  ago,  to  England." 


156 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  QUESTION   ANSWERED 

Thereafter  both  sat  silent  for  a  Httle  while.  The 
stream  of  people  across  the  courtyard  had  diminished. 
High  up  on  the  great  platform  by  the  lighted  arches 
the  throng  still  pressed  and  shifted.  But  here  there  was 
quietude.  The  clatter  of  voices  had  died  down.  A 
band  playing  somewhere  near  at  hand  could  be  heard. 
Violet  Oliver  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  had  been 
brought  face  to  face  with  a  real  tragedy.  She  was 
conscious  of  it  as  something  irremediable  and  terribly 
sad.  And  for  her  own  share  in  bringing  it  about  she 
was  full  of  remorse.  She  looked  at  Shere  Ali  as  he 
sat  beside  her,  his  eyes  gazing  into  the  courtyard,  his 
face  tired  and  hopeless.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
Her  thoughts  told  her  so  no  less  clearly  than  his  face. 
Here  was  a  life  spoilt  at  the  beginning.  But  that  was 
all  that  she  saw.  That  the  spoilt  life  might  become 
an  instrument  of  evil — she  was  blind  to  that  possibility : 
she  thought  merely  of  the  youth  who  suffered  and  still 
must  suffer;  who  was  crippled  by  the  very  means  which 
were  meant  to  strenghten  him:  and  pity  inclined  her 
towards  him  with  an  ever-increasing  strength. 

"I  couldn't  do  it,"  she  repeated  silently  to  herself. 
'*I  couldn't  do  it.     It  would  be  madness." 

157 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Shere  Ali  raised  his  head  and  said  with  a  smile,  "I 
am  glad  they  are  not  playing  the  tune  which  I  once 
heard  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  again  in  London 
when  I  said  good-bye  to  you." 

And  then  Violet  sought  to  comfort  him,  her  mind 
still  working  on  what  he  had  told  her  of  his  life  in  Chil- 
tistan. 

"But  it  will  become  easier,"  she  said,  beginning  in 
that  general  way.  "In  time  you  will  rule  in  Chil- 
tistan.  That  is  certain."  But  he  checked  her  with 
a   shake   of  the  head. 

"Certain?  There  is  the  son  of  Abdulla  Moham- 
med, who  fought  against  my  father  when  Linforth's 
father  was  killed.  It  is  likely  enough  that  those  old 
days  will  be  revived.  And  I  should  have  the  priests 
against  me." 

"The  Mullahs!"  she  exclaimed,  remembering  in 
what  terms  he  was  wont  to  speak  of  them  to  her. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have  set  them  against  me 
already.  They  laid  their  traps  for  me  while  I  was  on 
the  sea,  and  I  would  not  fall  into  them.  They  would 
have  liked  to  raise  the  country  against  my  father  and 
the  English,  just  as  they  raised  it  twenty-five  years 
ago.  And  they  would  have  liked  me  to  join  in  with 
them." 

He  related  to  Violet  the  story  of  his  meeting  with 
Safdar  Khan  at  the  Gate  of  Lahore,  and  he  repeated 
the  words  which  he  had  used  in  Safdar  Khan's  hearing. 

158 


A  QUESTION  ANSWERED 

"It  did  not  take  long  for  my  threats  to  be  repeated  in 
the  bazaar  of  Kohara,  and  from  the  bazaar  they  were 
quickly  carried  to  the  ears  of  the  Mullahs.  I  had 
proof  of  it,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

Violet  asked  him  anxiously  for  the  proof. 

''I  can  tell  to  a  day  when  the  words  were  repeated 
in  Kohara.  For  a  fortnight  after  my  coming  the  Mul- 
lahs still  had  hopes.  They  had  heard  nothing,  and 
they  met  me  always  with  salutations  and  greetings. 
Then  came  the  day  when  I  rode  up  the  valley  and  a 
Mullah  who  had  smiled  the  day  before  passed  me  as 
though  he  had  not  noticed  me  at  all.  The  news  had 
come.  I  was  sure  of  it  at  the  time.  I  reined  in  my 
horse  and  called  sharply  to  one  of  the  servants  riding 
behind  me,  'Who  is  that?'  The  Mullah  heard  the 
question,  and  he  turned  and  up  went  the  palm  of  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  in  a  flash.  But  I  was  not  inclined 
to  let  him  off  so  easily." 

"What  did  you  do?"  Violet  asked  uneasily. 

"  I  said  to  him,  '  My  friend,  I  will  take  care  that  you 
know  me  the  next  time  we  meet  upon  the  road.  Show 
me  your  hands!'  He  held  them  out,  and  they  were 
soft  as  a  woman's.  I  was  close  to  a  bridge  which  some 
Workmen  were  repairing.  So  I  had  my  friend  brought 
along  to  the  bridge.  Then  I  said  to  one  of  the  work- 
men, 'Would  you  like  to  earn  your  day's  wage  and  yet 
do  no  work?'  He  laughed,  thinking  that  I  was  joking. 
But  I  was  not.     I  said  to  him,  'Very  well,  then,  see  that 

159 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

this  soft-handed  creature  does  your  day's  work.  You 
will  bring  him  to  me  at  the  Palace  this  evening,  and  if 
I  find  that  he  has  not  done  the  work,  or  that  you  have 
helped  him,  you  will  forfeit  your  wages  and  I  will  whip 
you  both  into  the  bargain.'  The  Mullah  was  brought 
to  me  in  the  evening,"  said  Shere  Ali,  smiling  grimly. 
"He  was  so  stiff  he  could  hardly  walk.  I  made  him 
show  me  his  hands  again,  and  this  time  they  were  blis- 
tered. So  I  told  him  to  remember  his  manners  in  the 
future,  and  I  let  him  go.  But  he  was  a  man  of  prom- 
inence in  the  country,  and  when  the  story  got  known 
he  became  rather  ridiculous."  He  turned  with  a  smile 
to  Violet  Oliver. 

"My  people  don't  like  being  made  ridiculous — least 
of  all  Mullahs." 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  Violet's  face. 
Rather  she  was  troubled  and  alarmed. 

"But  surely  that  was  unwise?" 

Shere  Ali  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Wliat  does  it  matter?"  he  said.  He  did  not  tell 
her  all  of  that  story.  There  was  an  episode  which  had 
occurred  two  days  later  when  Shere  Ali  was  stalking 
an  ibex  on  the  hillside.  A  bullet  had  whistled  close  by 
his  ear,  and  it  had  been  fired  from  behind  him.  He 
was  never  quite  sure  whether  his  father  or  the  Mullah 
was  responsible  for  that  bullet,  but  he  inclined  to  at- 
tribute it  to  the  Mullah. 

"Yes,  I  have  the  priests  against  me,"  he  said.     "They 

160 


A  QUESTION  ANSWERED 

call   me   the   Englishman."     Then    he   laughed.     "A 
curious  piece  of  irony,  isn't  it?" 

He  stood  up  suddenly  and  said:  "When  I  left  Eng- 
land I  was  in  doubt.  I  could  not  be  sure  whether  my 
home,  my  true  home,  was  there  or  in  Chiltistan." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Violet. 

"I  am  no  longer  in  doubt.  It  is  neither  in  England 
nor  in  Chiltistan.  I  am  a  citizen  of  no  country.  I 
have  no  place  anywhere  at  all." 

Violet  Oliver  stood  up  and  faced  him. 

"I  must  be  going.  I  must  find  my  friends,"  she 
said,  and  as  he  took  her  hand,  she  added,  "I  am  so 
very  sorry." 

The  words,  she  felt,  were  utterly  inadequate,  but  no 
others  would  come  to  her  lips,  and  so  with  a  trembling 
smile  she  repeated  them.  She  drew  her  hand  from  his 
clasp  and  moved  a  step  or  two  away.  But  he  followed 
her,  and  she  stopped  and  shook  her  head. 

"This  is  really  good-bye,"  she  said  simply  and  very 
gravely. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question/'  he  explained.  "  Will 
you  answer  it?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you  until  you  ask  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  though  in  doubt 
whether  he  should  speak  or  not.  Then  he  said,  "Are 
you  going  to  marry — Linforth?" 

The  blood  slowly  mounted  into  her  face  and  flushed 
her  forehead  and  cheeks. 

161 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"  He  has  not  even  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  she  said, 
and  moved  down  into  the  courtyard. 

Shere  Ali  watched  her  as  she  went.  That  was  the 
last  time  he  should  see  her,  he  told  himself.  The  last 
time  in  all  his  life.  His  eyes  followed  her,  noting  the 
grace  of  her  movements,  the  whiteness  of  her  skin,  all 
her  daintiness  of  dress  and  person.  A  madness  kindled 
in  his  blood.  He  had  a  wild  thought  of  springing  down, 
of  capturing  her.  She  mounted  the  steps  and  disap- 
peared among  the  throng. 

And  they  wanted  him  to  marry — to  marry  one  of 
his  own  people.  Shere  Ali  suddenly  saw  the  face  of  the 
Deputy  Commissioner  at  Lahore  calmly  suggesting  the 
arrangement,  almost  ordering  it.  He  sat  down  again 
upon  the  couch  and  once  more  began  to  laugh.  But 
the  laughter  ceased  very  quickly,  and  folding  his  arms 
upon  the  high  end  of  the  couch,  he  bowed  his  head  upon 
them  and  was  still. 


162 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SHERE  ALI   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND 

The  carriage  which  was  to  take  Violet  Oliver  and  her 
friends  back  to  their  camp  had  been  parked  amongst 
those  farthest  from  the  door.  Violet  stood  for  a  long 
while  under  the  awning,  waiting  while  the  interminable 
procession  went  by.  The  generals  in  their  scarlet  coats, 
the  ladies  in  their  satin  gowns,  the  great  officers  of  state 
attended  by  their  escorts,  the  native  princes,  mounted 
into  their  carriages  and  were  driven  away.  The  cere- 
mony and  the  reception  which  followed  it  had  been 
markedly  successful  even  in  that  land  of  ceremonies  and 
magnificence.  The  voices  about  her  told  her  so  as 
they  spoke  of  this  or  that  splendour  and  recalled  the  pic- 
turesque figures  which  had  given  colour  to  the  scene. 
But  the  laughter,  the  praise,  the  very  tones  of  enjoy- 
ment had  to  her  a  heartless  ring.  She  watched  the 
pageantry  of  the  great  Indian  Administration  dissolve, 
and  was  blind  to  its  glitter  and  conscious  only  of  its 
ruthlessness.  For  ruthless  she  found  it  to-night.  She 
had  been  face  to  face  with  a  victim  of  the  system — a 
youth  broken  by  it,  needlessly  broken,  and  as  helpless 
to  recover  from  his  hurt  as  a  wounded  animal.  The 
harm  had  been  done  no  doubt  with  the  very  best  inten- 

•      163 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

tion,  but  the  harm  had  been  done.  She  was  conscious 
of  her  own  share  in  the  blame  and  she  drove  miserably 
home,  with  the  picture  of  Shere  Ali's  face  as  she  had 
last  seen  it  to  bear  her  company,  and  with  his  cry,  that 
he  had  no  place  anywhere  at  all,  sounding  in  her  ears. 
When  she  reached  the  privacy  of  her  own  tent,  and 
had  dismissed  her  maid,  she  unlocked  one  of  her  trunks 
and  took  out  from  it  her  jewel  case.  She  had  been 
careful  not  to  wear  her  necklace  of  pearls  that  night, 
and  she  took  it  out  of  the  case  now  and  laid  it  upon  her 
knees.  She  was  very  sorry  to  part  with  it.  She  touched 
and  caressed  the  pearls  with  loving  fingers,  and  once 
she  lifted  it  as  though  she  would  place  it  about  her  neck. 
But  she  checked  her  hands,  fearing  that  if  she  put  it  on 
she  would  never  bring  herself  to  let  it  go.  Already  as 
she  watched  and  fingered  it  and  bent  her  head  now  and 
again  to  scrutinise  a  stone,  small  insidious  voices  began 
to  whisper  at  her  heart. 

"He  asked  for  nothing  when  he  gave  it  you." 

"You  made  no  promise  when  you  took  it." 

"It  was  a  gift  without  conditions  hinted  or  implied." 

Violet  Oliver  took  the  world  lightly  on  the  whole. 

Only  this  one  passion  for  jewels  and  precious  stones 

had  touched  her  deeply  as  yet.     Of  love  she  knew  little 

beyond  the  name  and  its  aspect  in  others.     She  was 

familiar  enough  with  that,  so  familiar   that  she  gave 

little  heed  to  what  lay  behind  the  aspect — or  had  given 

little  heed  until  to-night.     Her  husband  she  had  ac- 

164       . 


SHERE  ALI   MEETS   AN  OLD  FRIEND 

cepted  rather  than  actively  welcomed.  She  had  lived 
with  him  in  a  mood  of  placid  and  unquestioning  good- 
humour,  and  she  had  greatly  missed  him  when  he  died. 
But  it  was  the  presence  in  the  house  that  she  missed, 
rather  than  the  lover.  To-night,  almost  for  the  first 
time,  she  had  really  looked  under  the  surface.  In- 
sight had  been  vouchsafed  to  her;  and  in  remorse  she 
was  minded  to  put  the  thing  she  greatly  valued  away 
from  her. 

She  rose  suddenly,  and,  lest  the  temptation  to  keep 
the  necklace  should  prove  too  strong,  laid  it  away  in  its 
case. 

A  post  went  every  day  over  the  passes  into  Chiltistan. 
She  wrapped  up  the  case  in  brown  paper,  tied  it,  sealed 
it,  and  addressed  it.  There  was  need  to  send  it  off,  she 
well  knew,  before  the  picture  of  Shere  Ali,  now  so  vivid 
in  her  mind,  lost  its  aspect  of  poignant  suffering  and 
faded  out  of  her  thoughts. 

But  she  slept  ill  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  she 
rose  from  her  bed.  The  tent  was  pitch  dark.  She  lit 
her  candle;  and  it  was  the  light  of  the  candle  which 
awoke  her  maid.  The  tent  was  a  double  one;  the 
maid  slept  in  the  smaller  portion  of  it  and  a  canvas 
doorway  gave  entrance  into  her  mistress'  room.  Over 
this  doorway  hung  the  usual  screen  of  green  matting. 
Now  these  screens  act  as  screens,  are  as  impenetrable 
to  the  eye  as  a  door — so  long  as  there  is  no  light  behind 
them.     But  place  a  light  behind  them  and  they  become 

165 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

transparent.  This  was  what  Violet  OHver  had  done. 
She  had  ht  her  candle  and  at  once  a  part  of  the  interior 
of  her  tent  was  visible  to  her  maid  as  she  lay  in  bed. 

The  maid  saw  the  table  and  the  sealed  parcel  upon 
it.  Then  she  saw  Mrs.  Oliver  come  to  the  table,  break 
the  seals,  open  the  parcel,  take  out  a  jewel  case — a 
jewel  case  which  the  maid  knew  well — and  carry  it  and 
the  parcel  out  of  sight.  Mrs.  Oliver  crossed  to  a  corner 
of  the  room  where  her  trunks  lay;  and  the  next  moment 
the  maid  heard  a  key  grate  in  a  lock.  For  a  little 
while  the  candle  still  burned,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  distorted  shadow  was  flung  upon  the  wall  of  the  tent 
within  the  maid's  vision.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Mrs. 
Oliver  was  sitting  at  a  little  writing  table  which  stood 
close  by  the  trunk.  Then  the  light  went  out  again. 
The  maid  would  have  thought  no  more  of  this  incident, 
but  on  entering  the  room  next  morning  with  a  cup  of 
tea,  she  was  surprised  to  see  the  packet  once  more 
sealed  and  fastened  on  the  centre  table. 

"  Adela,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  "  I  want  you  to  take  that 
parcel  to  the  Post  Office  yourself  and  send  it  off. 

The  maid  took  the  parcel  away. 

Violet  Oliver,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  drank  her  tea.  At 
last,  she  thought,  the  end  was  reached.  Now,  indeed, 
her  life  and  Shere  All's  life  would  touch  no  more.  But 
she  was  to  see  him  again.  For  two  days  later,  as  the 
train  which  was  carrying  her  northwards  to  Lahore 
moved  out  of  the  station,  she  saw  from  the  window  of 

166 


SHERE  ALI  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

her  carriage  the  young  Prince  of  ChiUistan  standing 
upon  the  platform.  She  drew  back  quickly,  fearing 
that  he  would  see  her.  But  he  was  watching  the  train 
with  indifferent  eyes;  and  the  spectacle  of  his  indif- 
ference struck  her  as  something  incongruous  and 
strange.  She  had  been  thinking  of  him  with  remorse 
as  a  man  twisting  like  Hamlet  in  the  coils  of  tragedy, 
and  wearing  like  Hamlet  the  tragic  mien.  Yet  here 
he  was  on  the  platform  of  a  railway  station,  waiting, 
like  any  commonplace  traveller,  with  an  uninterested 
patience  for  his  train.  The  aspect  of  Shere  Ali  dimin- 
ished Violet  Oliver's  remorse.  She  wondered  for  a 
moment  why  he  was  not  travelling  upon  the  same  train 
as  herself,  for  his  destination  must  be  northwards  too. 
And  then  she  lost  sight  of  him.  She  was  glad  that 
after  all  the  last  vision  of  him  which  she  was  to  carry 
away  was  not  the  vision  of  a  youth  helpless  and  'de- 
spairing with  a  trouble-tortured  face. 

Shere  Ali  was  following  out  the  destiny  to  which  his 
character  bound  him.  He  had  been  made  and  moulded 
and  fashioned,  and  though  he  knew  he  had  been  fash- 
ioned awry,  he  could  no  more  change  and  rebuild  him- 
self than  the  hunchback  can  will  away  his  hump.  He 
was  driven  down  the  ways  of  circumstance.  At  pres- 
ent he  saw  and  knew  that  he  was  so  driven.  He  knew, 
too,  that  he  could  not  resist.  This  half-year  in  Chil- 
tistan  had  taught  him  that. 

So   he   went    southwards    to    Calcutta.     The    mere 

167 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

thought  of  Chiltistan  was  unendurable.  He  had  to 
forget.  There  was  no  possibiKty  of  forgetfulness 
amongst  his  own  hills  and  the  foreign  race  that  once  had 
been  his  own  people.  Southwards  he  went  to  Calcutta, 
and  in  that  city  for  a  time  was  lost  to  sight.  He 
emerged  one  afternoon  upon  the  racecourse,  and  while 
standing  on  the  grass  in  front  of  the  Club  stand,  before 
the  horses  cantered  down  to  the  starting  post,  he  saw 
an  elderly  man,  heavy  of  build  but  still  erect,  approach 
him  with  a  smile. 

Shere  Ali  would  have  avoided  that  man  if  he  could. 
He  hesitated,  unwilling  to  recognise  and  unable  quite 
to  ignore.  And  while  he  hesitated,  the  elderly  man 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  We  know  each  other,  surely.  I  used  to  see  you  at 
Eton,  didn't  I?  I  used  to  run  down  to  see  a  young 
friend  of  mine  and  a  friend  of  yours,  Dick  Linforth. 
I  am  Colonel  Dewes." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Shere  Ali  with  some  em- 
barrassment; and  he  took  the  ColoneFs  outstretched 
hand.     "I  thought  that  you  had  left  India  for  good." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Dewes.  "But  I  was  wrong."  He 
turned  and  walked  along  by  the  side  of  Shere  Ali.  "I 
don't  know  why  exactly,  but  I  did  not  find  life  in  Lon- 
don so  very  interesting." 

Shere  Ali  looked  quickly  at  the  Colonel. 

"Yet  you  had  looked  forward  to  retiring  and  going 
home?"  he  asked  with  a  keen  interest.     Colonel  Dewes 

168 


SHERE  ALI  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

gave  himself  up  to  reflection.  He  sounded  the  ob- 
scurities of  his  mind.  It  was  a  practice  to  which  he 
was  not  accustomed.  He  drew  himself  erect,  his 
eyes  became  fixed,  and  with  a  puckered  forehead  he 
thought. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said.  "Yes,  certainly.  I  re- 
member. One  used  to  buck  at  mess  of  the  good  time 
one  would  have,  the  comfort  of  one's  club  and  one's 
rooms,  and  the  rest  of  it.  It  isn't  comfortable  in  India, 
is  it  ?  Not  compared  with  England.  Your  furniture, 
your  house,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  You  live  as 
if  you  were  a  lodger,  don't  you  know,  and  it  didn't 
matter  for  a  little  while  whether  you  were  comfortable 
or  not.  The  litde  while  slips  on  and  on,  and  suddenly 
you  find  you  have  been  in  the  country  twenty  or  thirty 
years,  and  you  have  never  taken  the  trouble  to  be  com- 
fortable.    It's  like  living  in  a  dak-bungalow." 

The  Colonel  halted  and  pulled  at  his  moustache.  He 
had  made  a  discovery.  He  had  refiected  not  without 
result.  "By  George!"  he  said,  "that's  right.  Let  me 
put  it  properly  now,  as  a  fellow  would  put  it  in  a 
book,  if  he  hit  upon  anything  as  good."  He  framed 
his  aphorism  in  different  phrases  before  he  was 
satisfied  with  it.  Then  he  delivered  himself  of  it  with 
pride. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  Englishman's  conception  of 
life  in  India,  there  is  always  the  idea  of  a  dak-bungalow," 
and  he  repeated  the  sentence  to  commit  it  surely  to 

169 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

memory.  "But  don't  you  use  it,"  he  said,  turning  to 
Shere  Ali  suddenly.  "  I  thought  of  that — not  you.  It's 
mine." 

"I  won't  use  it,"  said  Shere  AH. 

"Life  in  India  is  based  upon  the  dak-bungalow," 
said  Dewes.  "Yes,  yes";  and  so  great  was  his  pride 
that  he  relented  towards  Shere  Ali.  "You  may  use  it 
if  you  like,"  he  conceded.  "  Only  you  would  naturally 
add  that  it  was  I  who  thought  of  it." 

Shere  Ali  smiled  and  replied: 

"I  won't  fail  to  do  that,  Colonel  Dewes." 

"No ?  Then  use  it  as  much  as  you  like,  for  it's  true. 
Out  here  one  remembers  the  comfort  of  England  and 
looks  forward  to  it.  But  back  there,  one  forgets  the 
discomfort  of  India.  By  George!  that's  pretty  good, 
too.     Shall  we  look  at  the  horses  ?  " 

Shere  Ali  did  not  answer  that  question.  With  a 
quiet  persistence  he  kept  Colonel  Dewes  to  the  con- 
versation. Colonel  Dewes  for  his  part  was  not  reluc- 
tant to  continue  it,  in  spite  of  the  mental  wear  and  tear 
which  it  involved.  He  felt  that  he  was  clearly  in  the 
vein.  There  was  no  knowing  what  brilliant  thing  he 
might  not  say  next.  He  wished  that  some  of  those 
clever  fellows  on  the  India  Council  were  listening  to 
him. 

"Why?"  asked  Shere  Ali.  "Why  back  there  does 
one  forget  the  discomfort  of  India?" 

He  asked  the  question  less  in  search  of  information 

170 


SHERE   ALI  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

than  to  discover  whether  the  feehngs  of  which  he  was 
conscious  were  shared  too  by  his  companion. 

''Why?"  answered  Dewes  wrinkKng  his  forehead 
again.  "  Because  one  misses  more  than  one  thought  to 
miss  and  one  doesn't  find  half  what  one  thought  to  find. 
Come  along  here!" 

He  led  Shere  Ali  up  to  the  top  of  the  stand. 

"We  can  see  the  race  quite  well  from  here,"  he  said, 
"although  that  is  not  the  reason  why  I  brought  you  up. 
This  is  what  I  wanted  to  show  you." 

He  waved  his  hand  over  towards  the  great  space  which 
the  racecourse  enclosed.  It  was  thronged  with  natives 
robed  in  saffron  and  pink,  in  blue  and  w^hite,  in  scarlet 
and  delicate  shades  of  mauve  and  violet.  The  whole 
enclosure  was  ablaze  with  colour,  and  the  colours  per- 
petually moved  and  grouped  themselves  afresh  as  the 
throng  shifted.  A  great  noise  of  cries  rose  up  into  the 
clear  air. 

"I  suppose  that  is  what  I  missed,"  said  Dewes,  "not 
the  noise,  not  the  mere  crowd— you  can  get  both  on  an 
English  racecourse — but  the  colour." 

And  suddenly  before  Shere  Ali's  eyes  there  rose  a 
vision  of  the  Paddock  at  Newmarket  during  a  July 
meeting.  The  sleek  horses  paced  within  the  cool 
grove  of  trees;  the  bright  sunlight,  piercing  the  screen 
of  leaves  overhead,  dappled  their  backs  with  flecks  of 
gold.  Nothing  of  the  sunburnt  grass  b(^fore  his  eyes 
was  visible  to  him.     He  saw  the  green  turf  of  the  Jockey 

171 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Club  enclosure,  the  seats,  the  luncheon  room  behind 
with  its  open  doors  and  windows. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  he  said.  "But  you  have  come 
back,"  and  a  note  of  envy  sounded  in  his  voice.  Here 
was  one  point  in  which  the  parallel  between  his  case 
and  that  of  Colonel  Dewes  was  not  complete.  Dewes 
had  missed  India  as  he  had  missed  England.  But 
Dewes  was  a  free  man.  He  could  go  whither  he  would. 
"Yes,  you  were  able  to  come  back.  How  long  do  you 
stay?" 

And  the  answer  to  that  question  startled  Shere  Ali. 

"I  have  come  back  for  good." 

"You  are  going  to  live  here?"  cried  Shere  Ali. 

"Not  here,  exactly.  In  Cashmere.  I  go  up  to 
Cashmere  in  a  week's  time.  I  shall  live  there  and 
die  there." 

Colonel  Dewes  spoke  without  any  note  of  anticipa- 
tion, and  without  any  regret.  It  was  difficult  for  Shere 
Ali  to  understand  how  deeply  he  felt.  Yet  the  feeling 
must  be  deep.  He  had  cut  himself  off  from  his  own 
people,  from  his  own  country.  Shere  Ali  was  stirred 
to  yet  more  questions.  He  was  anxious  to  understand 
thoroughly  all  that  had  moved  this  commonplace  mat- 
ter-of-fact man  at  his  side. 

"You  found  life  in  England  so  dull?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  one  felt  a  stranger,"  said  Dewes.  "One  had 
lost  one's  associations.  I  know  there  are  men  who 
throw  themselves  into  public  life  and  the  rest  of  it.    But 

172 


SHERE  ALI   MEETS  AN  OLD   FRIEND 

I  couldn't.  I  hadn't  the  heart  for  it  even  if  I  had  the 
ability.  There  was  Lawrence,  of  course.  He  gov- 
erned India  and  then  he  went  on  the  School  Board," 
and  Dewes  thumped  his  fist  upon  the  rail  in  front  of 
him.  "How  he  was  able  to  do  it  beats  me  altogether. 
I  read  his  life  with  amazement.  He  was  just  as  keen 
about  the  School  Board  as  he  had  been  about  India 
when  he  was  Viceroy  here.  He  threw  himself  into  it 
with  just  as  much  vigour.  That  beats  me.  He  was  a 
big  man,  of  course,  and  I  am  not.  I  suppose  that's  the 
explanation.  Anyway,  the  School  Board  was  not  for 
me.  I  put  in  my  winters  for  some  years  at  Corfu  shoot- 
ing woodcock.  And  in  the  summer  I  met  a  man  or 
two  back  on  leave  at  my  club.  But  on  the  whole  it  was 
pretty  dull.  Yes,"  and  he  nodded  his  head,  and  for 
the  first  time  a  note  of  despondency  sounded  in  his 
voice.  "Yes,  on  the  whole  it  was  pretty  dull.  It  will 
be  better  in  Cashmere." 

"  It  would  have  been  still  better  if  you  had  never  seen 
India  at  all,"  said  Shere  Ali. 

"No;  I  don't  say  that.  I  had  my  good  time  in  India 
— twenty-five  years  of  it,  the  prime  of  my  life.  No;  I 
have  nothing  to  complain  of,"  said  Dewes. 

Here  was  another  difference  brought  to  Shere  All's 
eyes.  He  himself  was  still  young;  the  prime  years  were 
before  him,  not  behind.  He  looked  down,  even  as 
Dewes  had  done,  over  that  wide  space  gay  with  colours 
as  a  garden  of  flowers;  but  in  th-^;  one  man's  eyes  there 

173 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

was  a  light  of  satisfaction,  in  the  other's  a  gleam  almost 
of  hatred. 

"You  are  not  sorry  you  came  out  to  India,"  he  said. 
''Well,  for  my  part,"  and  his  voi2e  suddenly  shook  with 
passion,  ''I  wish  to  heaven  I  had  never  seen  England." 

Dewes  turned  about,  a  vacant  stare  of  perplexity  upon 
his  face. 

"Oh,  come,  I  say!"  he  protested. 

"I  mean  it!"  cried  Shere  Ali.  "It  was  the  worst 
thing  that  could  have  happened.  I  shall  know  no  peace 
of  mind  again,  no  contentment,  no  happiness,  not  until 
I  am  dead.     I  wish  I  were  dead!" 

And  though  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  he  spoke  with  so 
much  violence  that  Colonel  Dewes  was  quite  astounded. 
He  was  aware  of  no  similiarity  between  his  own  case 
and  that  of  Shere  x\li.  He  had  long  since  forgotten  the 
exhortations  of  Luffe. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  repeated.  "Isn't  that  a  little 
ungrateful — what  ?" 

He  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  word  less  likely  to 
soothe  the  exasperated  nerves  of  his  companion.  Shere 
Ali  laughed  harshly. 

"I  ought  to  be  grateful?"  said  he. 

"Well,"  said  Dewes,  "you  have  been  to  Eton  and 
Oxford,  you  have  seen  London.  All  that  is  bound  to 
have  broadened  your  mind.  Don't  you  feel  that  your 
mind  has  broadened?" 

"  Tell  me  the  use  of  a  broad  mind  in  Chiltistan,"  said 

174 


SHERE  ALI   MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

Shere  Ali.  And  Colonel  Dewes,  who  had  last  seen  the 
valleys  of  that  remote  country  more  than  twenty  years 
before,  was  baffled  by  the  challenge. 

''To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  out  of  touch  with 
Indian  problems,"  he  said.  "But  it's  surely  good  in 
every  way  that  there  should  be  a  man  up  there  who 
knows  we  have  something  in  the  way  of  an  army. 
When  I  was  there,  there  was  trouble  which  would  have 
been  quite  prevented  by  knowledge  of  that  kind." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Shere  Ali  quietly;  and  the 
two  men  turned  and  went  down  from  the  roof  of  the 
stand. 

The  words  which  Dewes  had  just  used  rankled  in 
Shere  Ali's  mind,  quietly  though  he  had  received  them. 
Here  was  the  one  definite  advantage  of  his  education  in 
England  on  which  Dewes  could  lay  his  finger.  He 
knew  enough  of  the  strength  of  the  British  army  to 
know  also  the  wisdom  of  keeping  his  people  quiet.  For 
that  he  had  been  sacrificed.  It  was  an  advantage — 
yes.  But  an  advantage  to  whom?  he  asked.  Why,  to 
those  governing  people  here  who  had  to  find  the  money 
and  the  troops  to  suppress  a  rising,  and  to  confront  at 
the  same  time  an  outcry  at  home  from  the  opponents 
of  the  forward  movement.  It  was  to  their  advantage 
certainly  that  he  should  have  been  sent  to  England. 
And  then  he  was  told  to  be  grateful! 

As  they  came  out  again  from  the  winding  stair- 
case and  turned  towards  the  paddock  Colonel  Dewes 

175 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

took  Shere  Ali  by  the  arm,  and  said  in  a  voice  of 
kindliness: 

"  And  what  has  become  of  all  the  fine  ambitions  you 
and  Dick  Linforth  used  to  have  in  common?" 

"Linforth's  still  at  Chatham,"  replied  Shere  Ali 
shortly. 

"Yes,  but  you  are  here.  You  might  make  a  begin- 
ning by  yourself." 

''They  won't  let  me." 

"There's  the  road,"  suggested  Dewes. 

"They  won't  let  me  add  an  inch  to  it.  They  will 
let  me  do  nothing,  and  they  won't  let  Linforth  come  out. 
I  wish  they  would,"  he  added  in  a  softer  voice.  "If 
Linforth  were  to  come  out  to  Chiltistan  it  might  make 
a  difference." 

They  had  walked  round  to  the  rails  in  frgnt  of  the 
stand,  and  Shere  Ali  looked  up  the  steps  to  the  Viceroy's 
box.  The  Viceroy  was  present  that  afternoon.  Shere 
Ali  saw  his  tall  figure,  with  the  stoop  of  the  shoulders 
characteristic  of  him,  as  he  stood  dressed  in  a  grey 
frock-coat,  with  the  ladies  of  his  family  and  one  or  two 
of  his  aides-de-camp  about  him.  Shere  Ali  suddenly 
stopped  and  nodded  towards  the  box. 

"Have  you  any  influence  there ?"  he  asked  of  Colonel 
Dewes;  and  he  spoke  with  a  great  longing,  a  great  eager- 
ness, and  he  waited  for  the  answer  in  a  great  suspense. 

Dewes  shook  his  head. 

"None,"  he  replied;  "I  am  nobody  at  all." 

176 


SHERE  ALI  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

The  hope  died  out  of  Shere  Ali's  face. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said;  and  the  eagerness  had  changed 
into  despair.  There  was  just  a  chance,  he  thought, 
of  salvation  for  himself  if  only  Linforth  could  be  fetched 
out  to  India.  He  might  resume  with  Linforth  his  old 
companionship,  and  so  recapture  something  of  his  old 
faith  and  of  his  bright  ideals.  There  was  sore  need  that 
he  should  recapture  them.  Shere  Ali  was  well  aware  of 
it.  More  and  more  frequently  sure  warnings  came  to 
him.  Now  it  was  some  dim  recollection  of  beliefs  once 
strongly  clung  to,  which  came  back  to  him  with  a  shock. 
He  would  awaken  through  some  chance  word  to  the 
glory  of  the  English  rule  in  India,  the  lessening  poverty 
of  the  Indian  nations,  the  incorruptibility  of  the  Eng- 
lish officials  and  their  justice. 

''Yes,  yes,"  he  would  say  with  astonishment,  "I 
was  sure  of  these  things;  I  knew  them  as  familiar 
truths,"  even  as  a  man  gradually  going  blind  might 
one  day  see  clearly  and  become  aware  of  his  narrowing 
vision.  Or  perhaps  it  would  be  some  sudden  unsus- 
pected revulsion  of  feeling  in  his  heart.  Such  a  revul- 
sion had  come  to  him  this  afternoon  as  he  had  gazed 
up  to  the  Viceroy's  box.  A  wild  and  unreasoning  wrath 
had  flashed  up  within  him,  not  against  the  system,  but 
against  that  tall  stooping  man,  worn  with  work,  who 
was  at  once  its  representative  and  its  flower.  Up  there 
the  great  man  stood — so  his  thoughts  ran — complacent, 
self-satisfied,  careless  of  the  harm  which  his  system 

177 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

wrought.  Down  here  upon  the  grass  walked  a  man 
warped  and  perverted  out  of  his  natural  course.  He 
had  been  sent  to  Eton  and  to  Oxford,  and  had  been 
filled  with  longings  and  desires  which  could  have  no 
fruition;  he  had  been  trained  to  delicate  thoughts  and 
habits  which  must  daily  be  offended  and  daily  be  a 
cause  of  offence  to  his  countrymen.  But  what  did  the 
tall  stooping  man  care?  Shere  Ali  now  knew  that  the 
English  had  something  in  the  way  of  an  army.  What 
did  it  matter  whether  he  lived  in  unhappiness  so  long 
as  that  knowledge  was  the  price  of  his  unhappiness? 
A  cruel,  careless,  wa-rping  business,  this  English  rule. 

Thus  Shere  Ali  felt  rather  than  thought,  and  realised 
the  while  the  danger  of  his  bitter  heart.  Once  more  he 
appealed  to  Colonel  Dewes,  standing  before  him  with 
burning  eyes. 

''Bring  Linforth  out  to  India!  If  you  have  any  in- 
fluence, use  it;  if  you  have  none,  obtain  it.  Only  bring 
Linforth  out  to  India,  and  bring  him  very  quickly!" 

Once  before  a  passionate  appeal  had  been  made  to 
Colonel  Dewes  by  a  man  in  straits,  and  Colonel  Dewes 
had  not  understood  and  had  not  obeyed.  Now,  a 
quarter  of  a  century  later  another  appeal  was  made  by 
a  man  sinking,  as  surely  as  Luffe  had  been  sinking  be- 
fore, and  once  again  Dewes  did  not  understand. 

He  took  Shere  Ali  by  the  arm,  and  said  in  a  kindly 
voice : 

'*  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad.     You  have  been  going 

178 


SHERE  ALI   MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

the  pace  a  bit,  eh?  Calcutta's  no  good.  You'll  only 
collect  debts  and  a  lot  of  things  you  are  better  without. 
Better  get  out  of  it." 

Shere  Ali's  face  closed  as  his  lips  had  done.  All  ex- 
pression died  from  it  in  a  moment.  There  was  no  help 
for  him  in  Colonel  Dewes.  He  said  good-bye  with  a 
smile,  and  walked  out  past  the  stand.  His  syce  was 
waiting  for  him  outside  the  railings. 

Shere  Ali  had  come  to  the  races  wearing  a  sun-helmet, 
and,  as  the  fashion  is  amongst  the  Europeans  in  Cal- 
cutta, his  syce  carried  a  silk  hat  for  Shere  Ali  to  take  in 
exchange  for  his  helmet  when  the  sun  went  down. 
Shere  Ali,  like  most  of  the  Europeanised  Indians,  was 
more  scrupulous  than  any  Englishman  in  adhering  to 
the  European  custom.  But  to-day,  with  an  angry  gest- 
ure, he  repelled  his  syce. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said.  "You  can  take  that  thing 
away." 

His  sense  of  humour  failed  him  altogether.  He  would 
have  liked  furiously  to  kick  and  trample  upon  that 
glossy  emblem  of  the  civilised  world;  he  had  much 
ado  to  refrain.  The  syce  carried  back  the  silk  hat  to 
Shere  Ali's  smart  trap,  and  Shere  Ali  drove  home  in  his 
helmet.  Thus  he  began  publicly  to  renounce  the  cher- 
ished illusion  that  he  was  of  the  white  people,  and  must 
do  as  the  white  people  did. 

But  Colonel  Dewes  pointed  unwittingly  the  signifi- 
cance of  that  trivial  matter  on  the  same  night.     He 

179 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

dined  at  the  house  of  an  old  friend,  and  after  the  ladies 
had  gone  he  moved  up  into  the  next  chair,  and  so  sat 
beside  a  weary-looking  official  from  the  Punjab  named 
Ralston,  who  had  come  down  to  Calcutta  on  leave. 
Colonel  Dewes  began  to  talk  of  his  meeting  with  Shere 
Ali  that  afternoon.  At  the  mention  of  Shere  All's  name 
the  official  sat  up  and  asked  for  more. 

"He  looked  pretty  bad,"  said  Colonel  Dewes. 
"Jumpy  and  feverish,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  been  sitting  up  all  night  for  a  week  or  two.  But 
this  is  what  interested  me  most,"  and  Dewes  told  how 
the  lad  had  implored  him  to  bring  Linforth  out  to  India. 

"Who's  Linforth?"  asked  the  official  quickly. 
"Not  the  son  of  that  Linforth  who " 

"Yes,  that's  the  man,"  said  the  Colonel  testily. 
"But  you  interrupt  me.  What  interested  me  was  this 
— when  I  refused  to  help,  Shere  All's  face  changed  in  a 
most  extraordinary  way.  All  the  fire  went  from  his 
eyes,  all  the  agitation  from  his  face.  It  was  like  look- 
ing at  an  open  box  full  of  interesting  things,  and  then — 
bang!  someone  slaps  down  the  lid,  and  you  are  staring 
at  a  flat  piece  of  wood.  It  was  as  if — as  if — well,  I 
can't  find  a  better  comparison." 

"It  was  as  if  a  European  suddenly  changed  before 
your  eyes  into  an  Oriental." 

Dewes  was  not  pleased  with  Ralston 's  success  in 
supplying  the  simile  he  could  not  hit  upon  himself. 

"That's  a  Httle  fanciful,"  he  said  grudgingly;  and 

180 


SHERE  ALI  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

then  recognised  frankly  the  justness  of  its  apphcation. 
"Yet  it's  true — a  European  changing  into  an  Oriental! 
Yes,  it  just  looked  Hke  that." 

"It  may  actually  have  been  that,"  said  the  official 
quietly.  And  he  added:  "I  met  Shere  Ali  last  year  at 
Lahore  on  his  way  north  to  Chiltistan.  I  was  interested 
then;  I  am  all  the  more  interested  now,  for  I  have  just 
been  appointed  to  Peshawur." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  which  was  grave — so  grave  that 
Colonel  Dewes  looked  quickly  towards  him. 

"Do  you  think  there  will  be  trouble  up  there  in 
Chiltistan?"  he  asked. 

The  Deputy-Commissioner,  who  was  now  Chief 
Commissioner,  smiled  wearily. 

"There  is  always  trouble  up  there  in  Chiltistan,"  he 
said.  "That  I  know.  What  I  think  is  this— Shere 
Ali  should  have  gone  to  the  Mayo  College  at  Ajmere. 
That  would  have  been  a  compromise  which  would  have 
satisfied  his  father  and  done  him  no  harm.  But  since 
he  didn't— since  he  went  to  Eton,  and  to  Oxford,  and 
ran  loose  in  London  for  a  year  or  two — why,  I  think  he 
is  right." 

"How  do  you  mean— right?"  asked  the  Colonel. 
"I  mean  that  the  sooner  Linforth  is  fetched  out  to 
India  and  sent  up  to  Chiltistan,  the  better  it  will  be," 
said  the  Commissioner. 


181 


CHAPTER  XVII 


NEWS   FROM   MECCA 


Mr.  Charles  Ralston,  being  a  bachelor  and  of  an 
economical  mind  even  when  on  leave  in  Calcutta,  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  in  a  grass  hut  in  the  garden  of  his 
Club.  He  awoke  the  next  morning  with  an  uncomfort- 
able feeling  that  there  was  work  to  be  done.  The 
feeling  changed  into  sure  knowledge  as  he  reflected 
upon  the  conversation  which  he  had  had  with  Colonel 
Dewes,  and  he  accordingly  arose  and  went  about  it. 
For  ten  days  he  went  to  and  fro  between  the  Club  and 
Government  House,  where  he  held  long  and  vigorous 
interviews  with  officials  who  did  not  wish  to  see  him. 
Moreover,  other  people  came  to  see  him  privately — 
people  of  no  social  importance  for  the  most  part,  al- 
though there  were  one  or  two  officers  of  the  police  service 
amongst  them.  With  these  he  again  held  long  inter- 
views, asking  many  inquisitive  questions.  Then  he 
would  go  out  by  himself  into  those  parts  of  the  city  where 
the  men  of  broken  fortunes,  the  jockeys  run  to  seed, 
and  the  prize-fighters  chiefly  preferred  to  congregate. 
In  the  low  quarters  he  sought  his  information  of  the 
waifs  and  strays  who  are  cast  up  into  the  drinking-bars 
of  any  Oriental  port,  and  he  did  not  come  back  empty- 
handed. 

182 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

For  ten  days  he  thus  toiled  for  the  good  of  the  Indian 
Government,  and,  above  all,  of  that  part  of  it  which  had 
its  headquarters  at  Lahore.  And  on  the  morning  of 
the  eleventh  day,  as  he  was  just  preparing  to  leave  for 
Government  House,  where  his  persistence  had  pre- 
vailed, a  tall,  black-bearded  and  very  sunburnt  man 
noiselessly  opened  the  door  of  the  hut  and  as  noiselessly 
stepped  inside.  Ralston,  indeed,  did  not  at  once  notice 
him,  nor  did  the  stranger  call  attention  to  his  presence. 
He  waited,  motionless  and  patient,  until  Ralston  hap- 
pened to  turn  and  see  him. 

''Hatch!"  cried  Ralston  with  a  smile  of  welcome 
stealing  over  his  startled  face,  and  making  it  very  pleas- 
ant to  look  upon.     "You?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  tall  man;  "I  reached  Calcutta 
last  night.  I  went  into  the  Club  for  breakfast.  They 
told  me  you  were  here." 

Robert  Hatch  was  of  the  same  age  as  Ralston.  But 
there  was  little  else  which  they  had  in  common.  The 
two  men  had  met  some  fifteen  years  ago  for  the  first 
time,  in  Peshawur,  and  on  that  first  meeting  some  subtle 
chord  of  sympathy  had  drawn  them  together;  and  so 
securely  that  even  though  they  met  but  seldom  nowa- 
days, their  friendship  had  easily  survived  the  long  inter- 
vals. The  story  of  Hatch's  life  was  a  simple  one.  He 
had  married  in  his  twenty-second  year  a  wife  a  year 
younger  than  himself,  and  together  the  couple  had 
settled  down  upon  an  estate  which  Hatch  owned  in 

183 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Devonshire.  Only  a  year  after  the  marriage,  however, 
Hatch's  wife  died,  and  he,  dishking  his  home,  had  gone 
restlessly  abroad.  The  restlessness  had  grown,  a 
certain  taste  for  Oriental  literature  and  thought  had 
been  fostered  by  his  travels.  He  had  become  a  wan- 
derer upon  the  face  of  the  earth — a  man  of  many  clubs 
in  different  quarters  of  the  world,  and  of  many  friends, 
who  had  come  to  look  upon  his  unexpected  appearance 
and  no  less  sudden  departure  as  part  of,  the  ordinary 
tenour  of  their  lives.  Thus  it  was  not  the  appearance 
of  Hatch  which  had  startled  Ralston,  but  rather  the 
silence  of  it. 

"WTiy  didn't  you  speak?"  he  asked.  "Why  did 
you  stand  waiting  there  for  me  to  look  your  way?" 

Hatch  laughed  as  he  sat  down  in  a  chair. 

"I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  waiting,  I  suppose," 
he  said.  "For  the  last  five  months  I  have  been  a 
servant  in  the  train  of  the  Sultan  of  the  Maldive 
Islands." 

Ralston  was  not  as  a  rule  to  be  surprised  by  any 
strange  thing  which  Hatch  might  have  chosen  to  do. 
He  merely  glanced  at  his  companion  and  asked: 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  doing  in  the  Maldive 
Islands?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  replied  Hatch.  "I  did  not  go  to 
them.     I  joined  the  Sultan  at  Suez." 

This  time  Ralston,  who  had  been  moving  about  the 
room  in  search  of  some  papers  which  he  had  mislaid, 

184 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

came  to  a  stop.     His  attention  was  arrested.     He  sat 
down  in  a  chair  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"I  wanted  to  go  to  Mecca,"  said  Hatch,  and  Ralston 
nodded  his  head  as  though  he  had  expected  just  those 
words. 

"I  did  not  see  how  I  was  going  to  get  there  by  my- 
self," Hatch  continued,  *' however  carefully  I  man- 
aged my  disguise." 

"Yet  you  speak  Arabic,"  said  Ralston. 

''Yes,  the  language  wasn't  the  difficulty.  Indeed,  a 
great  many  of  the  pilgrims — the  people  from  Central 
Asia,  for  instance — don't  speak  Arabic  at  all.  But  I 
felt  sure  that  if  I  went  down  the  Red  Sea  alone  on  a 
pilgrim  steamer,  landed  alone  at  Jeddah,  and  went  up 
with  a  crowd  of  others  to  Mecca,  living  with  them, 
sleeping  with  them,  day  after  day,  sooner  or  later  I 
should  make  some  fatal  slip  and  never  reach  Mecca  at 
all.  If  Burton  made  one  mistake,  how  many  should 
I  ?  So  I  put  the  journey  off  year  after  year.  But  this 
autumn  I  heard  that  the  Sultan  of  the  Maldive  Islands 
intended  to  make  the  pilgrimage.  He  was  a  friend  of 
mine.  I  waited  for  him  at  Suez,  and  he  reluctantly 
consented  to  take  me." 

"So  you  went  to  Mecca,"  exclaimed  Ralston. 

"Yes;  I  have  just  come  from  Mecca.  As  I  told  you, 
I  only  landed  at  Calcutta  last  night." 

Ralston  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

185 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"I  think  you  may  be  able  to  help  me,"  he  said  at 
length.  "There's  a  man  here  in  Calcutta,"  and  Ral- 
ston related  what  he  knew  of  the  history  of  Shere  Ali, 
dwelling  less  upon  the  unhappiness  and  isolation  of  the 
Prince  than  upon  the  political  consequences  of  his  iso- 
lation. 

"He  has  come  to  grief  in  Chiltistan,"  he  continued. 
"He  won't  marry — there  may  be  a  reason  for  that.  I 
don't  know.  English  women  are  not  always  wise  in 
their  attitude  towards  these  boys.  But  it  seems  to 
me  quite  a  natural  result  of  his  education  and  his  life. 
He  is  suspected  by  his  people.  When  he  goes  back, 
he  will  probably  be  murdered.  At  present  he  is  con- 
sorting with  the  lowest  Europeans  here,  drinking  with 
them,  playing  cards  with  them,  and  going  to  ruin  as 
fast  as  he  can.  I  am  not  sure  that  there's  a  chance  for 
him  at  all.  A  few  minutes  ago  I  would  certainly  have 
said  that  there  was  none.  Now,  however,  I  am  wonder- 
ing. You  see,  I  don't  know  the  lad  well  enough.  I 
don't  know  how  many  of  the  old  instincts  and  traditions 
of  his  race  and  his  faith  are  still  alive  in  him,  under- 
neath all  the  Western  ideas  and  the  Western  feelings 
to  which  he  has  been  trained.  But  if  they  are  dead, 
there  is  no  chance  for  him.  If  they  are  alive — well, 
couldn't  they  be  evoked?    That's  the  problem." 

Hatch  nodded  his  head. 

"He  might  be  turned  again  into  a  genuine  Moham- 
medan," he  said.     "I  wonder  too." 

186 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

"At  all  events,  it's  worth  trying,"  said  Ralston. 
"  For  it's  the  only  chance  left  to  try.  If  we  could  sweep 
away  the  effects  of  the  last  few  years,  if  we  could  ob- 
literate his  years  in  England — oh,  I  know  it's  improb- 
able.    But  help  me  and  let  us  see." 

''How?"  asked  Hatch. 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow  night.  I'll 
make  Shere  Ali  come.  I  can  make  him.  For  I  can 
threaten  to  send  him  back  to  Chiltistan.  Then  talk 
to  him  of  Mecca,  talk  to  him  of  the  city,  and  the  shrine, 
and  the  pilgrims.  Perhaps  something  of  their  devotion 
may  strike  a  spark  in  him,  perhaps  he  may  have  some 
remnant  of  faith  still  dormant  in  him.  Make  Mecca 
a  symbol  to  him,  make  it  live  for  him  as  a  place  of  pil- 
grimage. You  could,  perhaps,  because  you  have  seen 
with  your  own  eyes,  and  you  know." 

"I  can  try,  of  course,"  said  Hatch  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.  "  But  isn't  there  a  danger — if  I  succeed  ? 
I  might  try  to  kindle  faith,  I  might  only  succeed  in 
kindling  fanaticism.  Are  the  Mohammedans  beyond 
the  frontier  such  a  very  quiet  people  that  you  are  anxious 
to  add  another  to  their  number?" 

Ralston  was  prepared  for  the  objection.  Already, 
indeed,  Shere  Ali  might  be  seething  with  hatred  against 
the  Endish  rule.  It  would  be  no  more  than  natural 
if  he  were.  Ralston  had  pondered  the  question  with 
an  uncomfortable  vision  before  his  eyes,  evoked  by 
certain  words  of  Colonel  Dewes — a  youth  appealing 

187 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

for  help,  for  the  only  help  which  could  be  of  service  to 
him,  and  then,  as  the  appeal  was  rejected,  composing 
his  face  to  a  complete  and  stolid  inexpressiveness,  no 
longer  showing  either  his  pain  or  his  desire — reverting, 
as  it  were,  from  the  European  to  the  Oriental. 

**Yes,  there  is  that  danger,"  he  admitted.  "Seeking 
to  restore  a  friend,  we  might  kindle  an  enemy."  And 
then  he  rose  up  and  suddenly  burst  out:  "But  upon 
my  word,  were  that  to  come  to  pass,  we  should  deserve 
it.  For  we  are  to  blame — we  who  took  him  from  Chil- 
tistan  and  sent  him  to  be  petted  by  the  fine  people  in 
England."  And  once  more  it  was  evident  from  his 
words  that  he  was  thinking  not  of  Shere  Ali — not  of 
the  human  being  who  had  just  his  one  life  to  live,  just  his 
few  years  with  their  opportunities  of  happiness,  and 
their  certain  irrevocable  periods  of  distress — but  of 
the  Prince  of  Chiltistan  who  might  or  might  not  be 
a  cause  of  great  trouble  to  the  Government  of  the 
Punjab. 

"We  must  take  the  risk,"  he  cried  as  one  arguing 
almost  against  himself.  "It's  the  only  chance.  So 
we  must  take  the  risk.  Besides,  I  have  been  at  some 
pains  already  to  minimise  it.  Shere  Ali  has  a  friend 
in  England.  We  are  asking  for  that  friend.  A  tele- 
gram goes  to-day.  So  come  to-morrow  night  and  do 
your  best." 

"Very  well,  I  will,"  said  Hatch,  and,  taking  up  his 
hat,  he  went  away.     He  had  no  great  hopes  that  any 

188 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

good  would  come  of  the  dinner.  But  at  the  worst, 
he  thought,  it  would  leave  matters  where  they  were. 

In  that,  however,  he  was  wrong.  For  there  were  im- 
portant moments  in  the  history  of  the  young  Prince  of 
Chiltistan  of  which  both  Hatch  and  Ralston  were  quite 
unaware.  And  because  they  were  unaware  the  dinner 
which  was  to  help  in  straightening  out  the  tangle  of 
Shere  All's  life  became  a  veritable  catastrophe.  Shere 
Ali  was  brought  reluctantly  to  the  table  in  the  corner 
of  the  great  balcony  upon  the  first  floor.  He  had  little 
to  say,  and  it  was  as  evident  to  the  two  men  who  enter- 
tained him  as  it  had  been  to  Colonel  Dewes  that  the 
last  few  v/eeks  had  taken  their  toll  of  him.  There  were 
dark,  heavy  pouches  beneath  his  eyes,  his  manner  was 
feverish,  and  when  he  talked  at  all  it  was  with  a  boister- 
ous and  a  somewhat  braggart  voice. 

Ralston  turned  the  conversation  on  to  the  journey 
which  Hatch  had  taken,  and  for  a  little  while  the  dinner 
promised  well.  At  the  mere  mention  of  Mecca,  Shere 
Ali  looked  up  with  a  swift  interest.  "  Mecca ! "  he  cried, 
"you  have  been  there!  Tell  me  of  Mecca.  On  my 
way  up  to  Chiltistan  I  met  three  of  my  own  countrymen 
on  the  summit  of  the  Lowari  Pass.  They  had  a  few 
rupees  apiece — just  enough,  they  told  me,  to  carry 
them  to  Mecca.  I  remember  watching  them  as  they 
went  laughing  and   talking  down   the  snow  on   their 

long  journey.     And  I  wondered "     He  broke  off 

abruptly  and  sat  looking  out  from  the  balcony.     The 

189 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

night  was  coming  on.  In  front  stretched  the  great 
grass  plain  of  the  Maidan  with  its  big  trees  and  the 
wide  carriage-road  bisecting  it.  The  carriages  had 
driven  home ;  the  road  and  the  plain  were  empty.  Be- 
yond them  the  high  chimney-stacks  of  the  steamers  on 
the  river  could  still  be  seen,  some  with  a  wisp  of  smoke 
curling  upwards  into  the  still  air;  and  at  times  the 
long,  melancholy  hoot  of  a  steam-syren  broke  the  still- 
ness of  the  evening. 

Shere  Ali  turned  to  Hatch  again  and  said  in  a  quiet 
voice  which  had  some  note  of  rather  pathetic  appeal: 
''Will  you  tell  me  what  you  thought  of  Mecca?  I 
should  like  to  know." 

The  vision  of  the  three  men  descending  the  Lowari 
Pass  was  present  to  him  as  he  listened.  And  he  listened, 
wondering  what  strange,  real  power  that  sacred  place 
possessed  to  draw  men  cheerfully  on  so  long  and  haz- 
ardous a  pilgrimage.  But  the  secret  was  not  yet  to  be 
revealed  to  him.  Hatch  talked  well.  He  told  Shere 
Ali  of  the  journey  down  the  Red  Sea,  and  the  crowded 
deck  at  the  last  sunset  before  Jeddah  was  reached, 
when  every  one  of  the  pilgrims  robed  himself  in  spotless 
white  and  stood  facing  the  east  and  uttering  his  prayers 
in  his  own  tongue.  He  described  the  journey  across 
the  desert,  the  great  shrine  of  the  Prophet  in  Mecca, 
the  great  gathering  for  prayer  upon  the  plain  two  miles 
away.  Something  of  the  fervour  of  the  pilgrims  he 
managed  to  make  real  by  his  words,  but  Shere  Ali  lis- 

190 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

tencd  with  the  picture  of  the  three  men  in  his  thoughts, 
and  with  a  deep  envy  of  their  contentment. 

Then  Hatch  made  his  mistake.  He  turned  suddenly 
towards  Ralston  and  said: 

*'But  something  curious  happened — something  very 
strange  and  curious — which  I  think  you  ought  to  know, 
for  the  matter  can  hardly  be  left  where  it  is." 

Ralston  leaned  forward. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  he  called  to  the 
waiter.  *' Light  a  cigar  before  you  begin,  Hatch,"  he 
continued. 

The  cigars  were  brought,  and  Hatch  lighted  one. 

"In  what  way  am  I  concerned?"  asked  Ralston. 

"  My  story  has  to  do  with  India,"  Hatch  replied,  and 
in  his  turn  he  looked  out  across  the  Maidan.  Darkness 
had  come  and  lights  gleamed  upon  the  carriage- 
way; the  funnels  of  the  ships  had  disappeared,  and 
above,  in  a  clear,  dark  sky,  glittered  a  great  host  of 
stars. 

"With  India,  but  not  with  the  India  of  to-day," 
Hatch  continued.  "Listen";  and  over  his  coffee  he 
told  his  story.  "I  was  walking  down  a  narrow  street 
of  Mecca  towards  the  big  tank,  when  to  my  amazement 
I  saw  written  up  on  a  signboard  above  a  door  the  single 
word  'Ix)dgings.'  It  was  the  English  word,  written, 
too,  in  the  English  character.  I  could  hardly  believe 
my  eyes  when  I  saw  it.  I  stood  amazed.  What  was 
an  English  announcement,  that  lodgings  were  to  be  had 

191 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

within,  doing  in  a  town  where  no  EngHshman,  were  he 
known  to  be  such,  would  hve  for  a  single  hour  ?  I  had 
half  a  mind  to  knock  at  the  door  and  ask.  But  I  no- 
ticed opposite  to  the  door  a  little  shop  in  which  a  man 
sat  with  an  array  of  heavy  country-made  bolts  and 
locks  hung  upon  the  walls  and  spread  about  him  as  he 
squatted  on  the  floor.  I  crossed  over  to  the  booth,  and 
sitting  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  floor,  which  was  raised 
a  couple  of  feet  or  so  from  the  ground,  I  made  some 
smaU  purchase.  Then,  looking  across  to  the  sign,  I 
asked  him  what  the  writing  on  it  meant.  I  suppose  that 
I  did  not  put  my  question  carelessly  enough,  for  the 
shopkeeper  leaned  forward  and  peered  closely  into  my 
face. 

"^"Why  do  you  ask?'  he  said,  sharply. 

"'Because  I  do  not  understand,'  I  replied. 

"The  man  looked  me  over  again.  There  was  no 
mistake  in  my  dress,  and  with  my  black  beard  and  eyes 
I  could  well  pass  for  an  Arab.  It  seemed  that  he  was 
content,  for  he  continued:  'How  should  I  know  what 
the  word  means?  I  have  heard  a  story,  but  whether 
it  is  true  or  not,  who  shall  say?'" 

Hatch  paused  for  a  moment  and  lighted  his  cigar 
again. 

"Well,  the  account  which  he  gave  me  was  this. 
Among  the  pilgrims  who  come  up  to  Mecca,  there  are 
at  times  Hottentots  from  South  Africa  who  speak  no 
language  intelligible  to  anyone  in  Mecca;    but  they 

192 


NEWS  FlUJM  MP:CCA 

speak  English,  and  it  is  for  their  benefit  that  the  sign 
was  hung  up." 

"What  a  strange  thing!"  said  Shere  AH. 
"The  explanation,"  continued  Hatch,  "is  not  very 
important  to  my  story,  but  what  followed  upon  it  is; 
for  the  very  next  day,  as  I  was  walking  alone,  I  heard  a 
voice  in  my  ear,  whispering:  'The  Englishwoman 
would  like  to  see  you  this  evening  at  five.*  I  turned 
round  in  amazement,  and  there  stood  the  shopkeeper 
of  whom  I  had  made  the  inquiries.  I  thought^  of 
course,  that  he  was  laying  a  trap  for  me.  But  he  re- 
peated his  statement,  and,  telling  me  that  he  would  wait 
for  me  on  this  spot  at  ten  minutes  to  five,  he  walked  away. 

"I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  One  moment  I  feared 
treachery  and  proposed  to  stay  away,  the  next  I  was 
curious  and  proposed  to  go.  How  in  the  world  could 
there  be  an  Englishwoman  in  Mecca — above  all,  an 
Englishwoman  who  was  in  a  position  to  ask  me  to  tea  ? 
Curiosity  conquered  in  the  end.  I  tucked  a  loaded  re- 
volver into  my  waist  underneath  my  jellaba  and  kept 
the  appointment." 

"Go  on,"  said  Shere  Ali,  who  was  leaning  forward 
with  a  great  perplexity  upon  his  face. 

"The  shopkeeper  was  already  there.  'Follow  me,' 
he  said,  'but  not  too  closely.'  We  passed  in  that  way 
through  two  or  three  streets,  and  then  my  guide  turned 
into  a  dead  alley  closed  in  at  the  end  by  a  house.  In 
|the  wall  of  the  house  there  was  a  door.      My  guide 

193 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

looked  cautiously  round,  but  there  was  no  one  to  over- 
see us.  He  rapped  gently  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
door,  and  immediately  the  door  was  opened.  He 
beckoned  to  me,  and  went  quickly  in.  I  followed  him 
no  less  quickly.  At  once  the  door  was  shut  behind  me, 
and  I  found  myself  in  darkness.  For  a  moment  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  fallen  into  a  trap,  but  my  guide  laid  a 
hand  upon  my  arm  and  led  me  forward.  I  was  brought 
into  a  small,  bare  room,  where  a  woman  sat  upon 
cushions.  She  was  dressed  in  white  like  a  Moham- 
medan woman  of  the  East,  and  over  her  face  she  wore 
a  veil.  But  a  sort  of  shrivelled  aspect  which  she  had 
told  me  that  she  was  very  old.  She  dismissed  the  guide 
who  had  brought  me  to  her,  and  as  soon  as  we  were 
alone  she  said: 

"*You  are  English.' 

"And  she  spoke  in  English,  though  with  a  certain 
rustiness  of  speech,  as  though  that  language  had  been 
long  unfamiliar  to  her  tongue. 

"'No,'  I  replied,  and  I  expressed  my  contempt  of 
that  infidel  race  in  suitable  words. 

"  The  old  woman  only  laughed  and  removed  her  veil. 
She  showed  me  an  old  wizened  face  in  which  there  was 
not  a  remnant  of  good  looks — a  face  worn  and  wrinkled 
with  hard  living  and  great  sorrows. 

"'You  are  English,'  she  said,  'and  since  I  am  Eng- 
lish too,  I  thought  that  I  would  like  to  speak  once  more 
witn  one  of  my  own  countrymen.' 

194 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 
"I  no  longer  doubted.     I  took  the  hand  she  held  out 


to  me  and 

"'But  what  are  you  doing  here  in  Mecca?'  I  asked. 

"  *  I  live  in  Mecca/  she  replied  quietly.  '  I  have  lived 
here  for  twenty  years.' 

"I  looked  round  that  bare  and  sordid  little  room 
with  horror.  What  strange  fate  had  cast  her  up  there  ? 
I  asked  her,  and  she  told  me  her  story.  Guess  what  it 
was!" 

Ralston  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  imagine." 

Hatch  turned  to  Shere  Ali. 

"Can  you?"  he  asked,  and  even  as  he  asked  he  saw 
that  a  change  had  come  over  the  young  Prince's  mood. 
He  was  no  longer  oppressed  with  envy  and  discontent. 
He  was  leaning  forward  with  parted  lips  and  a  look  in 
his  eyes  which  Hatch  had  not  seen  that  evening — a 
look  as  if  hope  had  somehow  dared  to  lift  its  head 
within  him.  And  there  was  more  than  a  look  of  hope; 
there  was  savagery  too. 

"No.  I  want  to  hear,"  replied  Shere  Ali.  "Goon, 
please!     How  did  the  Englishwoman  come  to  Mecca?" 

"She  was  a  governess  in  the  family  of  an  officer  at 
Cawnpore  when  the  Mutiny  broke  out,  more  than  forty 
years  ago,"  said  Hatch. 

Ralston  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  exclamation 
of  horror.  Shere  Ali  said  nothing.  His  eyes  rested 
intently    and    brightly    upon    Hatch's    face.      Under 

195 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  table,  and  out  of  sight,  his  fingers  worked 
convulsively. 

"She  was  in  that  room,"  continued  Hatch,  "in  that 
dark  room  with  the  other  Englishwomen  and  children 
who  were  murdered.  But  she  was  spared.  She  was 
very  pretty,  she  told  me,  in  her  youth,  and  she  was  only 
eighteen  when  the  massacre  took  place.  She  was  car- 
ried up  to  the  hills  and  forced  to  become  a  Moham- 
medan. The  man  who  had  spared  her  married  her. 
He  died,  and  a  small  chieftain  in  the  hills  took  her  and 
married  her,  and  finally  brought  her  out  with  him  when 
he  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  While  he  was  at 
Mecca,  however,  he  fell  ill,  and  in  his  turn  he  died.  She 
was  left  alone.  She  had  a  little  money,  and  she  stayed. 
Indeed,  she  could  not  get  away.     A  strange  story,  eh  ?" 

And  Hatch  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  once  more 
lighted  his  cigar  which  for  a  second  time  had  gone  out. 

"You  didn't  bring  her  back?"  exclaimed  Ralston. 

"She  wouldn't  come,"  replied  Hatch.  "I  offered  to 
smuggle  her  out  of  Mecca,  but  she  refused.  She  felt 
that  she  wouldn't  and  couldn't  face  her  own  people 
again.  She  should  have  died  at  Cawnpore,  and  she 
did  not  die.  Besides,  she  was  old;  she  had  long  since 
grown  accustomed  to  her  life,  and  in  England  she  had 
long  since  been  given  up  for  dead.  She  would  not 
even  tell  me  her  real  name.  Perhaps  she  ought  to  be 
fetched  away.     I  don't  know." 

Ralston  and  Hatch  fell  to  debating  that  point  with 

196 


NEWS  FROM  MECCA 

great  earnestness.  Neither  of  them  paid  heed  to  Shere 
Ali,  and  when  he  rose  they  easily  let  him  go.  Nor  did 
their  thoughts  follow  him  upon  his  way.  But  he  was 
thinking  deeply  as  he  went,  and  a  queer  and  not  very 
pleasant  smile  played  about  his  lips. 


197 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


SYBIL   LINFORTH  S   LOYALTY 


A  fortnight  after  Shere  Ali  had  dined  with  Ralston 
in  Calcutta,  a  telegram  was  handed  to  Linforth  at 
Chatham.  It  was  Friday,  and  a  guest-night.  The 
mess-room  was  full,  and  here  and  there  amongst  the 
scarlet  and  gold  lace  the  sombre  black  of  a  civilian 
caught  the  eye.  Dinner  was  just  over,  and  at  the  ends 
of  the  long  tables  the  mess-waiters  stood  ready  to  draw, 
with  a  single  jerk,  the  strips  of  white  tablecloth  from 
the  shining  mahogany.  The  silver  and  the  glasses  had 
been  removed,  the  word  was  given,  and  the  strips  of 
tablecloth  vanished  as  though  by  some  swift  legerde- 
main. The  port  was  passed  round,  and  while  the 
glasses  were  being  filled  the  telegram  was  handed  to 
Linforth  by  his  servant. 

He  opened  it  carelessly,  but  as  he  read  the  words  his 
heart  jumped  within  him.  His  importunities  had  suc- 
ceeded, he  thought.  At  all  events,  his  opportunity  had 
come;  for  the  telegram  informed  him  of  his  appoint- 
ment to  the  Punjab  Commission.  He  sat  for  a  moment 
with  his  thoughts  in  a  whirl.  He  could  hardly  believe 
the  good  news.  He  had  longed  so  desperately  for  this 
one  chance  that  it  had  seemed  to  him  of  late  impossible 

198 


SYBIL  LINFORTH'S  LOYALTY 

that  he  should  ever  obtain  it.  Yet  here  it  had  come  to 
him,  and  upon  that  his  neighbour  jogged  him  in  the 
ribs  and  said: 

"Wake  up!" 

He  waked  to  see  the  Colonel  at  the  centre  of  the  top 
table  standing  on  his  feet  with  his  glass  in  his  hand. 

"Gentlemen,  the  Queen.  God  bless  her!"  and  all 
that  company  arose  and  drank  to  the  toast.  The 
prayer,  thus  simply  pronounced  amongst  the  men  who 
had  pledged  their  lives  in  service  to  the  Queen,  had 
always  been  to  Linforth  a  very  moving  thing.  Some 
of  those  who  drank  to  it  had  already  run  their  risks  and 
borne  their  sufferings  in  proof  of  their  sincerity;  the 
others  all  burned  to  do  the  like.  It  had  always  seemed 
to  him,  too,  to  link  him  up  closely  and  inseparably  with 
the  soldiers  of  the  regiment  who  had  fallen  years  ago 
or  had  died  quietly  in  their  beds,  their  service  ended. 
It  gave  continuity  to  the  regiment  of  Sappers,  so  that 
what  each  man  did  increased  or  tarnished  its  fair  fame. 
For  years  back  that  toast  had  been  drunk,  that  prayer 
uttered  in  just  those  simple  words,  and  Linforth  was 
wont  to  gaze  round  the  walls  on  the  portraits  of  the 
famous  generals  who  had  looked  to  these  barracks  and 
to  this  mess-room  as  their  home.  They,  too,  had  heard 
that  prayer,  and,  carrying  it  in  their  hearts,  without 
parade  or  needless  speech  had  gone  forth,  each  in  his 
turn,  and  laboured  unsparingly. 

But  never  had  Linforth  been  so  moved  as  he  was  to- 

199 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

night.  He  choked  in  his  throat  as  he  drank.  For  his 
turn  to  go  forth  had  at  the  last  come  to  him.  And  in 
all  humility  of  spirit  he  sent  up  a  prayer  on  his  own 
account,  that  he  might  not  fail — and  again  that  he 
might  not  fail. 

He  sat  down  and  told  his  companions  the  good  news, 
and  rejoiced  at  their  congratulations.  But  he  slipped 
away  to  his  own  quarters  very  quietly  as  soon  as  the 
Colonel  rose,  and  sat  late  by  himself. 

There  was  one,  he  knew  very  well,  to  whom  the  glad 
tidings  would  be  a  heavy  blow — but  he  could  not — no, 
not  even  for  her  sake — stand  aside.  For  this  oppor- 
tunity he  had  lived,  training  alike  his  body  and  mind 
against  its  coming.  He  could  not  relinquish  it.  There 
was  too  strong  a  constraint  upon  him. 

"  Over  the  passes  to  the  foot  of  the  Hindu  Kush,"  he 
murmured;  and  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  road — a 
broad,  white,  graded  road — snake  across  the  valleys 
and  climb  the  cliffs. 

Was  Russia  at  work?  he  wondered.  Was  he  to  be 
sent  to  Chiltistan?  What  was  Shere  Ali  doing?  He 
turned  the  questions  over  in  his  mind  without  being  at 
much  pains  to  answer  them.  In  such  a  very  short  time 
now  he  would  know.  He  was  to  embark  before  a 
month  had  passed. 

He  travelled  down  the  very  next  day  into  Sussex,  and 
came  to  the  house  under  the  Downs  at  twelve  o'clock. 
It  was  early  spring,  and  as  yet  there  were  no  buds  upon 

200 


SYBIL  LINFORTH'S   LOYALTY 

the  trees,  no  daffodils  upon  the  lawns.  The  house, 
standing  apart  in  its  bare  garden  of  brown  earth,  black 
trees,  and  dull  green  turf,  had  a  desolate  aspect  which 
somehow  filled  him  with  remorse.  He  might  have  done 
more,  perhaps,  to  fill  this  house  with  happiness.  He 
feared  that,  now  that  it  was  too  late  to  do  the  things 
left  undone.  He  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  great 
plans,  which  for  a  moment  lost  in  his  eyes  their  mag- 
nitude. 

Dick  IJnforth  found  his  mother  in  the  study,  through 
the  window  of  which  she  had  once  looked  from  the 
garden  in  the  company  of  Colonel  Dewes.  She  was 
writing  her  letters,  and  when  she  saw  him  enter,  she 
sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

"Dick!"  she  cried,  coming  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hands.  But  she  stopped  half-way.  The 
happiness  died  out  of  her.  She  raised  a  hand  to  her 
heart,  and  her  voice  once  more  repeated  his  name;  but 
her  voice  faltered  as  she  spoke,  and  the  hand  was 
clasped  tight  upon  her  breast. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  and  in  his  face  she  read  the  tidings 
he  had  brought.  The  blow  so  long  dreaded  had  at 
last  fallen. 

"Yes,  mother,  it's  true,"  he  said  very  gently;  and 
leading  her  to  a  chair,  he  sat  beside  her,  stroking 
her  hand,  almost  as  a  lover  might  do.  "It's  true. 
The  telegram  came  last  night.  I  start  within  the 
month." 

201 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"For  Chiltistan?" 

Dick  looked  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"For  the  Punjab,"  he  said,  and  added:  "But  it  will 
mean  Chiltistan.  Else  why  should  I  be  sent  for?  It 
has  been  always  for  Chiltistan  that  I  have  importuned 
them." 

Sybil  Linforth  bowed  her  head.  The  horror  which 
had  been  present  with  her  night  and  day  for  so  long  a 
while  twenty-five  years  ago  rushed  upon  her  afresh,  so 
that  she  could  not  speak.  She  sat  living  over  again  the 
bitter  days  when  Luffe  was  shut  up  with  his  handful  of 
men  in  the  fort  by  Kohara.  She  remembered  the 
morning  when  the  postman  came  up  the  garden  path 
with  the  official  letter  that  her  husband  had  been  slain. 
And  at  last  in  a  whisper  she  said: 

"The  Road?" 

Dick,  even  in  the  presence  of  her  pain,  could  not  deny 
the  implication  of  her  words. 

"We  Linforths  belong  to  the  Road,"  he  answered 
gravely.  The  words  struck  upon  a  chord  of  memory. 
Sybil  Linforth  sat  upright,  turned  to  her  son  and  greatly 
surprised  him.  He  had  expected  an  appeal,  a  prayer. 
What  he  heard  was  something  which  raised  her  higher 
in  his  thoughts  than  ever  she  had  been,  high  though  he 
had  always  placed  her. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "I  have  never  said  a  word  to  dis- 
suade you,  have  I?  Never  a  word?  Never  a  single 
word?"  and  her  tone  besought  him  to  assure  her. 

202 


SYBIL  LINFORTH'S  LOYALTY 

"  Never  a  word,  mother,"  he  repHed. 

But  still  she  was  not  content. 

"When  you  were  a  boy,  when  the  Road  began  to 
take  hold  on  you — when  we  were  much  together,  play- 
ing cricket  out  there  in  the  garden,"  and  her  voice  broke 
upon  the  memory  of  those  golden  days,  "  when  I  might 
have  been  able,  perhaps,  to  turn  you  to  other  thoughts, 
I  never  tried  to,  Dick  ?  Own  to  that!  I  never  tried  to. 
When  I  came  upon  you  up  on  the  top  of  the  Down 
behind  the  house,  lying  on  the  grass,  looking  out — 
always — always  towards  the  sea — oh,  I  knew  very  well 
what  it  was  that  was  drawing  you ;  but  I  said  nothing, 
Dick.     Not  a  word — not  a  word!" 

Dick  nodded  his  head. 

"That's  true,  mother.  You  never  questioned  me. 
You  never  tried  to  dissuade  me." 

Sybil's  face  shone  with  a  wan  smile.  She  unlocked 
a  drawer  in  her  writing-table,  and  took  out  an  envelope. 
From  the  envelope  she  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  covered 
with  a  faded  and  yellow  handwriting. 

"This  is  the  last  letter  your  father  ever  wrote  to  me," 
she  said.  "Harry  wrote  on  the  night  that  he — that  he 
died.  Oh,  Dick,  my  boy,  I  have  known  for  a  long  time 
that  I  would  have  one  day  to  show  it  to  you,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  feel  when  that  time  came  that  I  had 
not  been  disloyal." 

She  had  kept  her  face  steady,  even  her  voice  calm, 
by  a  great  effort.     But  now  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  and 

203 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

brimmed  over,  and  her  voice  suddenly  shook  between 
a  laugh  and  a  sob.  ''But  oh,  Dick,"  she  cried,  "I 
have  so  often  wanted  to  be  disloyal.  I  was  so  often 
near  to  it — oh,  very,  very  near." 

She  handed  him  the  faded  letter,  and,  turning  towards 
the  window,  stood  with  her  back  to  him  while  he  read. 
It  was  that  letter,  with  its  constant  refrain  of  "I  am 
very  tired,"  which  Linforth  had  written  in  his  tent 
whilst  his  murderers  crouched  outside  waiting  for  sleep 
to  overconle  him. 

"I  am  sitting  writing  this  by  the  light  of  a  candle," 
Dick  read.  "The  tent  door  is  open.  In  front  of  me 
I  can  see  the  great  snow-mountains.  All  the  ugliness 
of  the  shale-slopes  is  hidden.  By  such  a  moonlight,  my 
dear,  may  you  always  look  back  upon  my  memory. 
For  it  is  all  over,  Sybil." 

Then  followed  the  advice  about  himself  and  his 
school;  and  after  that  advice  the  message  which  was 
now  for  the  first  time  delivered: 

"Whether  he  will  come  out  here,  it  is  too  early  to 
think  about.  But  the  Road  will  not  be  finished — and 
I  wonder.  If  he  wants  to,  let  him!  We  Linforths  be- 
long to  the  Road." 

Dick  folded  the  letter  reverently,  and  crossing  to  his 
mother's  side,  put  his  arm  about  her  waist. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "My  father  knew  it  as  I  know  it. 
He  used  the  words  which  I  in  my  turn  have  used.  We 
Linforths  belong  to  the  Road." 

204 


SYBIL   LINFORTH'S   LOYALTY 

His  mother  took  the  letter  from  his  hand  and  locked 
it  away. 

"Yes,"  she  said  bravely,  and  called  a  smile  to  her 
face.     "So  you  must  go." 

Dick  nodded  his  head. 

"Y^es.  You  see,  the  Road  has  not  advanced  since 
my  father  died.  It  almost  seems,  mother,  that  it  waits 
for  me." 

He  stayed  that  day  and  that  night  with  Sybil,  and  in 
the  morning  both  brought  haggard  faces  to  the  break- 
fast table.  Sybil,  indeed,  had  slept,  but,  with  her  mem- 
ories crowding'  hard  upon  her,  she  had  dreamed  again 
one  of  those  almost  forgotten  dreams  which,  in  the  time 
of  her  suspense,  had  so  tortured  her.  The  old  vague 
terror  had  seized  upon  her  again.  She  dreamed  once 
more  of  a  young  Englishman  who  pursued  a  young 
Indian  along  the  wooden  galleries  of  the  road  above  the 
torrents  into  the  far  mists.  She  could  tell  as  of  old  the 
very  dress  of  the  native  who  fled.  A  thick  sheepskin 
coat  swung  aside  as  he  ran  and  gave  her  a  glimpse  of 
gay  silk;  soft  high  leather  boots  protected  his  feet;  and 
upon  his  face  there  was  a  look  of  fury  and  wild  fear. 
But  this  night  there  was  a  difference  in  the  dream.  Her 
present  distress  added  a  detail.  The  young  English- 
man who  pursued  turned  his  face  to  her  as  he  disap- 
peared amongst  the  mists,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  the 
face  of  Dick. 

But  of  this  she  said  nothing  at  all  at  the  breakfast 

205 


THE   BROKEN   llOAD 

table,  nor  when  she  bade  Dick  good-bye  at  the  stile 
on  the  further  side  of  the  field  beyond  the  garden. 

"You  will  come  down  again,  and  I  shall  go  to  Mar- 
seilles to  see  you  off,"  she  said,  and  so  let  him  go. 

There  was  something,  too,  stirring  in  Dick's  mind  of 
which  he  said  no  word.  In  the  letter  of  his  father, 
certain  sentences  had  caught  his  eye,  and  on  his  way 
up  to  London  they  recurred  to  his  thoughts,  as,  indeed, 
they  had  more  than  once  during  the  evening  before. 

"May  he  meet,"  Harry  Linforth  had  written  to  Sybil 
of  his  son  Dick — "may  he  meet  a  woman  like  you, 
my  dear,  when  his  time  comes,  and  love  her  as  I  love 

you." 

Dick  Linforth  fell  to  thinking  of  Violet  Oliver.  She 
was  in  India  at  this  moment.  She  might  still  be  there 
when  he  landed.  Would  he  meet  her,  he  wondered, 
somewhere  on  the  way  to  Chiltistan? 


206 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   GIFT   MISUNDERSTOOD 

The  month  was  over  before  Linforth  at  last  steamed 
out  of  the  harbour  at  Marseilles.  He  was  as  impatient 
to  reach  Bombay  as  a  year  before  Shere  Ali  had  been 
reluctant.  To  Shere  Ali  the  boat  had  flown  with  wings 
of  swiftness,  to  Linforth  she  was  a  laggard.  The  steamer 
passed  Stromboli  on  a  wild  night  of  storm  and  moon- 
light. The  wrack  of  clouds  scurrying  overhead,  now 
obscured,  now  let  the  moonlight  through,  and  the  great 
cone  rising  sheer  from  a  tempestuous  sea  glowed  angrily. 
Linforth,  in  the  shelter  of  a  canvas  screen,  watched 
the  glow  suddenly  expand,  and  a  stream  of  bright  spar- 
kling red  flow  swiftly  along  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain, 
turn  at  a  right  angle,  and  plunge  down  towards  the  sea. 
The  bright  red  would  become  dull,  the  dull  red  grow 
black,  the  glare  of  light  above  the  cone  contract  for  a 
Httle  while  and  then  burst  out  again.  Yet  men  lived 
upon  the  slope  of  Stromboli,  even  as  Englishmen — the 
thought  flashed  into  his  mind — lived  in  India,  recog- 
nising the  peril  and  going  quietly  about  their  work. 
There  was  always  that  glare  of  menacing  light  over  the 
hill-districts  of  India  as  above  the  crater  of  Stromboli, 
now  contracting,  now  expanding  and  casting  its  molten 
stream  down  towards  the  plains. 

207 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

At  the  moment  when  Linforth  watched  the  crown 
of  hght  above  StromboH,  the  glare  was  widening  over 
the  hill  country  of  Chiltistan.  Ralston  so  far  away  as 
Peshawur  saw  it  reddening  the  sky  and  was  the  more 
troubled  in  that  he  could  not  discover  why  just  at  this 
moment  the  menace  should  glow  red.  The  son  of 
Abdulla  Mohammed  was  apparently  quiet  and  Shere 
Ali  had  not  left  Calcutta.  The  Resident  at  Kohara 
admitted  the  danger.  Every  despatch  he  sent  to  Pe- 
shawur pointed  to  the  likelihood  of  trouble.  But  he 
too  was  at  fault.  Unrest  was  evident,  the  cause  of  it 
quite  obscure.  But  what  was  hidden  from  Govern- 
ment House  in  Peshawur  and  the  Old  Mission  House 
at  Kohara  was  already  whispered  in  the  bazaars.  There 
among  the  thatched  booths  which  have  their  backs 
upon  the  brink  of  the  water-channel  in  the  great  square, 
men  knew  very  well  that  Shere  Ali  was  the  cause,  though 
Shere  Ali  knew  nothing  of  it  himself.  One  of  those 
queer  little  accidents  possible  in  the  East  had  happened 
within  the  last  few  weeks.  A  trifling  gift  had  been 
magnified  into  a  symbol  and  a  message,  and  the  message 
had  run  through  Chiltistan  like  fire  through  a  dry  field 
of  stubble.  And  then  two  events  occurred  in  Peshawur 
which  gave  to  Ralston  the  key  of  the  mystery. 

The  first  was  the  arrival  in  that  city  of  a  Hindu  lady 
from  Gujerat  who  had  lately  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  was  a  reincarnation  of  the  Goddess  Devi.  She 
arrived  in  great  pomp,  and  there  was  some  trouble  in 

208 


A  GIFl^  MISUNDERSTOOD 

the  streets  as  the  procession  passed  through  to  the  temple 
which  she  had  chosen  as  her  residence.  For  the  Hindus, 
on  the  one  hand,  firmly  believed  in  her  divinity.  The 
lady  came  of  a  class  which,  held  in  dishonour  in  the 
West,  had  its  social  position  and  prestige  in  India. 
There  was  no  reason  in  the  eyes  of  the  faithful  why  she 
should  say  she  was  the  Goddess  Devi  if  she  were  not. 
Therefore  they  lined  the  streets  to  acclaim  her  coming. 
The  Mohammedans,  on  the  other  hand,  Afghans  from 
the  far  side  of  the  Khyber,  men  of  the  Hassan  and  the 
Aka  and  the  Adam  Khel  tribes,  Afridis  from  Kohat 
and  Tirah  and  the  Araksai  country,  any  who  happened 
to  be  in  that  wild  and  crowded  town,  turned  out,  too — 
to  keep  order,  as  they  pleasantly  termed  it,  when  their 
leaders  were  subsequently  asked  for  explanations.  In 
the  end  a  good  many  heads  were  broken  before  the  lady 
was  safely  lodged  in  her  temple.  Nor  did  the  trouble 
end  there.  The  presence  of  a  reincarnated  Devi  at 
once  kindled  the  Hindus  to  fervour  and  stimulated  to 
hostility  against  them  the  fanatical  Mohammedans. 
Futteh  Ali  Shah,  a  merchant,  a  municipal  councillor 
and  a  landowner  of  some  importance,  headed  a  depu- 
tation of  elderly  gentlemen  who  begged  Ralston  to 
remove  the  danger  from  the  city. 

Danger  there  was,  as  Ralston  on  his  morning  rides 
through  the  streets  could  not  but  understand.  The 
temple  was  built  in  the  corner  of  an  open  space,  and 
upon  that  open  space  a  noisy  and  excited  crowd  surged 

209 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

all  day;  while  from  the  countryside  around  pilgrims 
in  a  mood  of  frenzied  piety  and  Pathans  spoiling  for  a 
fight  trooped  daily  in  through  the  gates  of  Peshawur. 
Ralston  understood  that  the  time  had  come  for  definite 
steps  to  be  taken;  and  he  took  them  with  that  uncon- 
cerned half-weary  air  which  was  at  once  natural  to 
him  and  impressive  to  these  particular  people  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal. 

He  summoned  two  of  his  native  levies  and  mounted 
his  horse. 

"But  you  will  take  a  guard,"  said  Colonel  Ward,  of 
the  Oxfordshires,  who  had  been  lunching  with  Ralston. 
"I'll  send  a  company  down  with  you." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Ralston  listlessly,  "I  think 
my  two  men  will  do." 

The  Colonel  stared  and  expostulated. 

"  You  know,  Ralston,  you  are  very  rash.  Your  pred- 
ecessor never  rode  into  the  City  without  an  escort." 

"I  do  every  morning." 

"I  know,"  returned  the  Colonel,  "and  that's  where 
you  are  wrong.  Some  day  something  will  happen. 
To  go  down  with  two  of  your  levies  to-day  is  madness. 
I  speak  seriously.     The  place  is  in  a  ferment." 

"  Oh,  I  think  I'll  be  all  right,"  said  Ralston,  and  he 
rode  at  a  trot  down  from  Government  House  into  the 
road  which  leads  past  the  gaol  and  the  Fort  to  the  gate 
of  Peshawur.  At  the  gate  he  reduced  the  trot  to  a  walk, 
and  so,  with  his  two  levies  behind  him,  passed  up  along 

210 


A  GIFT  misundi^:kstood 

the  streets  like  a  man  utterly  undisturbed.  It  was  not 
bravado  which  had  made  him  refuse  an  escort.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  policy.  To  assume  that  no  one 
questioned  his  authority  was  in  Ralston's  view  the  best 
way  and  the  quickest  to  establish  it.  He  pushed  for- 
ward through  the  crowd  right  up  to  the  walls  of  the 
temple,  seemingly  indifferent  to  every  cry  or  threat 
which  was  uttered  as  he  passed.  The  throng  closed  in 
behind  him,  and  he  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  a  low  door 
set  in  the  whitewashed  wall  which  enclosed  the  temple 
and  its  precincts.  Upon  this  door  he  beat  with  the 
butt  of  his  crop  and  a  little  wicket  in  the  door  was 
opened.  At  the  bars  of  the  wicket  an  old  man's 
face  showed  for  a  moment  and  then  drew  back  in 
fear. 

''Open!"  cried  Ralston  peremptorily. 

The  face  appeared  again. 

''Your  Excellency,  the  goddess  is  meditating.  Be- 
sides, this  is  holy  ground.  Your  Excellency  would  not 
wish  to  set  foot  on  it.  Moreover,  the  courtyard  is  full 
of  worshippers.     It  would  not  be  safe." 

Ralston  broke  in  upon  the  old  man's  fluttering  pro- 
testations. "Open  the  door,  or  my  men  will  break 
it  in." 

A  murmur  of  indignation  arose  from  the  crowd 
which  thronged  about  him.  Ralston  paid  no  heed  to 
it.     He  called  to  his  two  levies: 

"Quick!     Break  that  door  in!" 

211 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

As  they  advanced  the  door  was  opened.  Ralston 
dismounted,  and  bade  one  of  his  men  do  likewise  and 
follow  him.     To  the  second  man  he  said, 

''Hold  the  horses!" 

He  strode  into  the  courtyard  and  stood  still. 

"It  will  be  touch  and  go,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  about  him. 

The  courtyard  was  as  thronged  as  the  open  space 
without,  and  four  strong  walls  enclosed  it.  The  wor- 
shippers were  strangely  silent.  It  seemed  to  Ralston 
that  suspense  had  struck  them  dumb.  They  looked 
at  the  intruder  with  set  faces  and  impassive  eyes.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  courtyard  there  was  a  raised  stone 
platform,  and  this  part  was  roofed.  At  the  back  in  the 
gloom  he  could  see  a  great  idol  of  the  goddess,  and  in 
front,  facing  the  courtyard,  stood  the  lady  from  Gujerat. 
She  was  what  Ralston  expected  to  see — a  dancing  girl 
of  Northern  India,  a  girl  with  a  good  figure,  small  hands 
and  feet,  and  a  complexion  of  an  olive  tint.  Her  eyes 
were  large  and  lustrous,  with  a  line  of  black  pencilled 
upon  the  edges  of  the  eyelids,  her  eyebrows  arched  and 
regular,  her  face  oval,  her  forehead  high.  The  dress 
was  richly  embroidered  with  gold,  and  she  had  anklets 
with  silver  bells  upon  her  feet. 

Ralston  pushed  his  way  through  the  courtyard  until 
he  reached  the  wall  of  the  platform. 

"  Come  down  and  speak  to  me,"  he  cried  peremptorily 
to  the  lady,  but  she  took  no  notice  of  his  presence.     She 

212 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

did  not  move  so  much  as  an  eyelid.  She  gazed  over 
his  head  as  one  lost  in  meditation.  From  the  side  an 
old  priest  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

"Go  away,"  he  cried  insolently.  "You  have  no 
place  here.  The  goddess  does  not  speak  to  any  but 
her  priests,"  and  through  the  throng  there  ran  a  mur- 
mur of  approval.  There,  was  a  movement,  too — a 
movement  towards  Ralston.  It  was  as  yet  a  hesitating 
movement — those  behind  pushed,  those  in  front  and 
within  Ralston's  vision  held  back.  But  at  any  moment 
the  movement  might  become  a  rush. 

Ralston  spoke  to  the  priest. 

"Come  down,  you  dog!"  he  said  quite  quietly. 

The  priest  was  silent.  He  hesitated.  He  looked 
for  help  to  the  crowd  below,  which  in  turn  looked  for 
leadership  to  him.  "Come  down,"  once  more  cried 
Ralston,  and  he  moved  towards  the  steps  as  though  he 
would  mount  on  to  the  platform  and  tear  the  fellow 
down. 

"  I  come,  I  come,"  said  the  priest,  and  he  went  down 
and  stood  before  Ralston. 

Ralston  turned  to  the  Pathan  who  accompanied  him. 
"Turn  the  fellow  into  the  street." 

Protests  rose  from  the  crowd;  the  protests  became 
cries  of  anger;  the  throng  swayed  and  jostled.  But 
the  Pathan  led  the  priest  to  the  door  and  thrust  him  out. 

Again  Ralston  turned  to  the  platform. 

"Listen   to   me,"   he   called  out   to   the   lady   from 

213 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Giijerat.  "You  must  leave  Peshawur.  You  are  a 
trouble  to  the  town.     I  will  not  let  you  stay." 

But  the  lady  paid  no  heed.  Her  mind  floated  above 
the  earth,  and  with  every  moment  the  danger  grew. 
Closer  and  closer  the  throng  pressed  in  upon  Ralston 
and  his  attendant.  The  clamour  rose  shrill  and  menac- 
ing. Ralston  cried  out  to  his  Pathan  in  a  voice  which 
rang  clear  and  audible  even  above  the  clamour: 

"Bring  handcuflFs!" 

The  words  were  heard  and  silence  fell  upon  all  that 
crowd,  the  sudden  silence  of  stupefaction.  That  such 
an  outrage,  such  a  defilement  of  a  holy  place,  could  be 
contemplated  came  upon  the  worshippers  with  a  shock. 
But  the  Pathan  lew  was  seen  to  be  movinsr  towards 
the  door  to  obey  the  order,  and  as  he  went  the  cries 
and  threats  rose  with  redoubled  ardour.  For  a  moment 
it  seemed  to  Ralston  that  the  day  would  go  against  him, 
so  fierce  were  the  faces  which  shouted  in  his  ears,  so 
turbulent  the  movement  of  the  crowd.  It  needed  just 
one  hand  to  be  laid  upon  the  Pathan's  shoulder  as  he 
forced  his  way  towards  the  door,  just  one  blow  to  be 
struck,  and  the  ugly  rush  would  come.  But  the  hand 
was  not  stretched  out,  nor  the  blow  struck;  and  the 
Pathan  was  seen  actually  at  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
Then  the  Goddess  Devi  came  down  to  earth  and  spoke 
to  another  of  her  priests  quickly  and  urgently.  The 
priest  went  swiftly  down  the  steps. 

"The  goddess  will  leave  Peshawur,  since  your  Ex- 

214 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD  | 

cellencv  so  wills  it,"  he  said  to  Ralston.     "She  will 

shake  the  dust  of  this  city  from  her  feet.     She  will  not  ; 

bring  trouble  upon  its  people."     So  far  he  had  got  when  \ 

the  goddess  became  violently  agitated.     She  beckoned 

to  the  priest  and  when  he  came  to  her  side  she  spoke  | 

quickly  to  him  in  an  undertone.     For  the  last  second  or  J 

two  the  goddess  had  grown  quite  human  and  even  fem-  i 

inine.     She  was  rating  the  priest  well  and  she  did  it  1 

spitefully.     It  was  a  crestfallen  priest  who  returned  to 

Ralston. 

"The  goddess,  however,  makes  a  condition,"  said 
he.     "If  she  goes  there  must  be  a  procession." 

The  goddess  nodded  her  head  emphatically.     She 
was  clearly  adamant  upon  that  point. 

Ralston  smiled. 

"By  all  means.     The  lady  shall  have  a  show,  since 
she  wants  one,"  said  he,  and  turning  towards  the  door,  \ 

he  signalled  to  the  Pathan  to  stop. 

"  But  it  must  be  this  afternoon,"  said  he.     "  For  she 
must  go  this  afternoon." 

And  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  courtyard  into  the 
street.     The  lady  from   Gujerat  left  Peshawur  three 
hours  later.     The  streets  were  lined  with  levies,   al- 
though the  Mohammedans  assured  his  Excellency  that  ] 
there  was  no  need  for  troops.  '< 

"  We  ourselves  will  keep  order,"  they  urged.     Ralston  ; 

smiled,  and  ordered  up  a  company  of  Regulars.     He  i 

himself  rode  out  from  Government  House,  and  at  the  ! 

215  \ 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

bend  of  the  road  he  met  the  procession,  with  the  lady 
from  Gujerat  at  its  head  in  a  litter  with  drawn  curtains 
of  tawdry  gold. 

As  the  procession  came  abreast  of  him  a  little  bro^m 
hand  was  thrust  out  from  the  curtains,  and  the  bearers 
and  the  rabble  behind  came  to  a  halt.  A  man  in  a 
rough  brown  homespun  cloak,  with  a  beggar's  bowl  at- 
tached to  his  girdle,  came  to  the  side  of  the  litter,  and 
thence  went  across  to  Ralston. 

"Your  Highness,  the  Goddess  Devi  has  a  word  for 
your  ear  alone."  Ralston,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
walked  his  horse  up  to  the  side  of  the  litter  and  bent 
down  his  head.  The  lady  spoke  through  the  curtains 
in  a  whisper. 

"Your  Excellency  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  al- 
lowed me  to  leave  Peshawur  with  a  procession,  guarding 
the  streets  so  that  I  might  pass  in  safety  and  with  great 
honour.  Therefore  I  make  a  return.  There  is  a  mat- 
ter which  troubles  your  Excellency.  You  ask  yourself 
the  why  and  the  wherefore,  and  there  is  no  answer. 
But  the  danger  grows." 

Ralston's  thoughts  flew  out  towards  Chiltistan.  Was 
it  of  that  country  she  was  speaking  ? 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Why  does  the  danger  grow  ?  " 

"Because  bags  of  grain  and  melons  were  sent,"  she 
replied,  "and  the  message  was  understood." 

She  waved  her  hand  again,  and  the  bearers  of  the 
litter  stepped  forward  on  their  march  through  the  can- 

216 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

tonment.  Ralston  rode  up  the  hill  to  his  home,  wonder- 
ing what  in  the  world  was  the  meaning  of  her  oracular 
words.  It  might  be  that  she  had  no  meaning — that 
was  certainly  a  possibility.  She  might  merely  be 
keeping  up  her  pose  as  a  divinity.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  had  been  so  careful  to  speak  in  a  low  whisper,  lest 
any  should  overhear. 

"  Some  melons  and  bags  of  grain,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"What  message  could  they  convey?  And  who  sent 
them  ?     And  to  whom  ?" 

He  wrote  that  night  to  the  Resident  at  Kohara,  on 
the  chance  that  he  might  be  able  to  throw  some  light 
upon  the  problem. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  a  melon  and  a  bag  of 
grain?"  he  wrote.  "It  seems  an  absurd  question,  but 
please  make  inquiries.     Find  out  what  it  all  means." 

The  messenger  carried  the  letter  over  the  Malakand 
Pass  and  up  the  road  by  Dir,  and  in  due  time  an  answer 
was  returned.  Ralston  received  the  answer  late  one 
afternoon,  when  the  light  was  failing,  and,  taking  it 
over  to  the  window,  read  it  through.  Its  contents 
fairly  startled  him. 

"  I  have  made  inquiries,"  wrote  Captain  Phillips,  the 
Resident,  "as  you  wished,  and  I  have  found  out  that 
some  melons  and  bags  of  grain  were  sent  by  Shere  All's 
orders  a  few  weeks  ago  as  a  present  to  one  of  the  chief 
Mullahs  in  the  town." 

Ralston  was  brought  to  a  stoo.     So  it  was  Shere  Ali, 

217 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

after  all,  who  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble.  It  was 
Shere  Ali  who  had  sent  the  present,  and  had  sent  it  to 
one  of  the  Mullahs.  Ralston  looked  back  upon  the 
little  dinner  party,  whereby  he  had  brought  Hatch  and 
Shere  Ali  together.  Had  that  party  been  too  success- 
ful, he  wondered  ?  Had  it  achieved  more  than  he  had 
wished  to  bring  about  ?  He  turned  in  doubt  to  the  let- 
ter which  he  held. 

"It  seems,"  he  read,  "that  there  had  been  some 
trouble  between  this  man  and  Shere  Ali.  There  is  a 
story  that  Shere  Ali  set  him  to  work  for  a  day  upon  a 
bridge  just  below  Kohara.  But  I  do  not  know  whether 
there  is  any  truth  in  the  story.  Nor  can  I  find  that  any 
particular  meaning  is  attached  to  the  present.  I  imagine 
that  Shere  Ali  realised  that  it  would  be  wise — as  un- 
doubtedly it  was — for  him  to  make  his  peace  with  the 
Mullah,  and  sent  him  accordingly  the  melons  and  the 
bags  of  grain  as  an  earnest  of  his  good-will." 

There  the  letter  ended,  and  Ralston  stood  by  the 
window  as  the  light  failed  more  and  more  from  off  the 
earth,  pondering  with  a  heavy  heart  upon  its  contents. 
He  had  to  make  his  choice  between  the  Resident  at 
Kohara  and  the  lady  of  Gujerat.  Captain  Phillips  held 
that  the  present  was  not  interpreted  in  any  symbolic 
sense.  But  the  lady  of  Gujerat  had  known  of  the 
present.  It  was  matter  of  talk,  then,  in  the  bazaars, 
and  it  would  hardly  have  been  that  had  it  meant  no 
more  than  an  earnest  of  good-will.     She  had  heard  of 

218 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

the  present;  she  knew  what  it  was  held  to  convey.  It 
was  a  message.  There  was  that  glare  broadening  over 
Chiltistan.     Surely  the  lady  of  Gujerat  was  right. 

So  far  his  thoughts  had  carried  him  when  across  the 
window  there  fell  a  shadow,  and  a  young  officer  of  the 
Khyber  Rifles  passed  by  to  the  door.  Captain  Single- 
ton was  announced,  and  a  boy — or  so  he  looked — dark- 
haired  and  sunburnt,  entered  the  office.  For  eighteen 
months  he  had  been  stationed  in  the  fort  at  Landi 
Kotal,  whence  the  road  dips  down  between  the  bare 
brown  cliffs  towards  the  plains  and  mountains  of 
Afghanistan.  With  two  other  English  officers  he  had 
taken  his  share  in  the  difficult  task  of  ruling  that  regi- 
ment of  wild  tribesmen  which,  twice  a  week,  perched  in 
threes  on  some  rocky  promontory,  or  looking  down 
from  a  machicolated  tower,  keeps  open  the  Khyber  Pass 
from  dawn  to  dusk  and  protects  the  caravans.  The 
eighteen  months  had  written  their  history  upon  his 
face;  he  stood  before  Ralston,  for  all  his  youthful  looks, 
a  quiet,  self-reliant  man. 

"  I  have  come  down  on  leave,  sir,"  he  said.  "  On  the 
way  I  fetched  Rabat  Mian  out  of  his  house  and  brought 
hun  in  to  Peshawur." 

Ralston  looked  up  with  interest. 

"Any  trouble?"  he  asked. 

"I  took  care  there  should  be  none." 

Ralston  nodded. 

"He  had  better  be  safely  lodged.     Where  is  he?' 

219 


ivj 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"I  have  him  outside." 

Ralston  rang  for  Hghts,  and  then  said  to  Singleton: 

''Then,  I'll  see  him  now." 

And  in  a  few  minutes  an  elderly  white-bearded  man, 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  his  best  white  robes,  was 
shown  into  the  room. 

"This  is  his  Excellency,"  said  Captain  Singleton, 
and  Rabat  Mian  bowed  with  dignity  and  stood  waiting. 
But  while  he  stood  his  eyes  roamed  inquisitively  about 
the  room. 

"All  this  is  strange  to  you,  Rabat  Mian,"  said  Ral- 
ston. "  How  long  is  it  since  you  left  your  house  in  the 
Khyber  Pass?" 

"Five  years,  your  Highness,"  said  Rabat  Mian, 
quietly,  as  though  there  were  nothing  very  strange  in 
so  long  a  confinement  within  his  doors. 

"Have  you  never  crossed  your  threshold  for  five 
years?"  asked  Ralston. 

"No,  your  Highness.  I  should  not  have  stepped 
back  over  it  again,  had  I  been  so  foolish.  Before,  yes. 
There  was  a  deep  trench  dug  between  my  house  and  the 
road,  and  I  used  to  crawl  along  the  trench  when  no 
one  was  about.  But  after  a  little  my  enemies  saw  me 
walking  in  the  road,  and  watched  the  trench." 

Rabat  Mian  lived  in  one  of  the  square  mud  window- 
less  houses,  each  with  a  tower  at  a  corner  which  dot  the 
green  wheat  fields  in  the  Khyber  Pass  wherever  the 
hills  fall  back  and  leave  a  level  space.     His  house  was 

220 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

fifty  yards  from  the  road,  and  the  trench  stretched  to 
it  from  his  very  door.  But  not  two  hundred  yards  away 
there  were  other  houses,  and  one  of  these  held  Rahat 
Mian's  enemies.  The  feud  went  back  many  years  to 
the  date  when  Rahat  Mian,  without  asking  anyone's 
leave  or  paying  a  single  farthing  of  money,  secretly 
married  the  widowed  mother  of  Futteh  Ali  Shah.  Now 
Futteh  Ali  Shah  was  a  boy  of  fourteen  who  had  the  right 
to  dispose  of  his  mother  in  second  marriage  as  he  saw 
fit,  and  for  the  best  price  he  could  obtain.  And  this 
deprivation  of  his  rights  kindled  in  him  a  great  anger 
against  Rahat  Mian.  He  nursed  it  until  he  became  a 
man  and  was  able  to  buy  for  a  couple  of  hundred  rupees 
a  good  pedigree  rifle — a  rifle  which  had  belonged  to  a 
soldier  killed  in  a  hill-campaign  and  for  which  in- 
quiries would  not  be  made.  Armed  with  his  pedigree 
rifle,  Futteh  Ali  Shah  lay  in  wait  vainly  for  Rahat  IMian, 
until  an  unexpected  bequest  caused  a  revolution  in  his 
fortunes.  He  went  down  to  Bombay,  added  to  his 
bequest  by  becoming  a  money-lender,  and  finally  re- 
turned to  Peshawur,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  which 
city  he  had  become  a  landowner  of  some  importance. 
Meanwhile,  however,  he  had  not  been  forgetful  of 
Rahat  Mian.  He  left  relations  behind  to  carry  on  the 
feud,  and  in  addition  he  set  a  price  on  Rahat  Mian's 
head.  It  was  this  feud  which  Ralston  had  it  in  his 
mind  to.  settle. 

He  turned  to  Rahat  Mian. 

221 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

"You  are  willing  to  make  peace?" 

"Yes,"  said  tlie»old  man. 

"You  will  take  your  most  solemn  oath  that  the  feud 
shall  end.  You  will  swear  to  divorce  your  wife,  if  you 
break  your  word  ?" 

For  a  moment  Rahat  Mian  hesitated.  There  was  no 
oath  more  binding,  more  sacred,  than  that  which  he  was 
called  upon  to  take.     In  the  end  he  consented. 

"Then  come  here  at  eight  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Ralston,  and,  dismissing  the  man,  he  gave  instructions 
that  he  should  be  safely  lodged.  He  sent  word  at  the 
same  time  to  Futteh  Ali  Shah,  with  whom,  not  for  the 
first  time,  he  had  had  trouble. 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  arrived  late  the  next  morning  in 
order  to  show  his  independence.  But  he  was  not  so 
late  as  Ralston,  who  replied  by  keeping  him  waiting 
for  an  hour.  When  Ralston  entered  the  room  he  saw 
that  Futteh  Ali  Shah  had  dressed  himself  for  the  occa- 
sion. His  tall  high-shouldered  frame  was  buttoned  up 
in  a  grey  frock  coat,  grey  trousers  clothed  his  legs,  and 
he  wore  patent-leather  shoes  upon  his  feet. 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  been  waiting  very  long.  They 
should  have  told  me  you  were  here,"  said  Ralston,  and 
though  he  spoke  politely,  there  was  just  a  suggestion 
that  it  was  not  really  of  importance  whether  Futteh  Ali 
Shah  was  kept  waiting  or  not. 

"I  have  brought  you  here  that  together  we  may  put 
an  end  to  your  dispute  with  Rahat  Mian,"  said  Ralston, 

222 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

and,  taking  no  notice  of  the  exclamation  of  surprise 
which  broke  from  the  Pathan's  lips,  he  rang  the  bell  and 
ordered  Rabat  Mian  to  be  shown  in. 

"Now  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  come  to  an  understand- 
ing," said  Ralston,  and  he  seated  himself  between  the 
two  antagonists. 

But  though  they  talked  for  an  hour,  they  came  no 
nearer  to  a  settlement.  Futteh  Ali  Shah  was  obdurate; 
Rabat  Mian's  temper  and  pride  rose  in  their  turn.  At 
the  sight  of  each  other  the  old  grievance  became  fresh 
as  a  thing  of  yesterday  in  both  their  minds.  Their 
dark  faces,  with  the  high  cheek-bones  and  the  beaked 
noses  of  the  Afridi,  became  passionate  and  fierce.  Fi- 
nally Futteh  Ali  Shah  forgot  all  his  Bombay  manners; 
he  leaned  across  Ralston,  and  cried  to  Rabat  Mian: 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  would  like  to  do  with  you  ?  I 
would  like  to  string  my  bedstead  with  your  skin  and  lie 
on  it." 

And  upon  that  Ralston  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
the  meeting  might  as  well  come  to  an  end. 

He  dismissed  Rabat  Mian,  promising  him  a  safe 
conveyance  to  his  home.  But  he  had  not  yet  done 
with  Futteh  Ali  Shah. 

'^I  am  going  out,"  he  said  suavely.  "Shall  we  walk 
a  little  way  together?" 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  smiled.  Landowner  of  importance 
that  he  was,  the  opportunity  to  ride  side  by  side  through 
Peshawur  with  the  Chief  Commissioner  did  not  come 

223 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

every  day.  The  two  men  went  out  into  the  porch^ 
Ralston's  horse  was  waiting,  with  a  scarlet-clad  syce  at 
its  head.  Ralston  walked  on  down  the  steps  and  took 
a  step  or  two  along  the  drive.  Futteh  Ali  Shah  lagged 
behind. 

"Your  Excellency  is  forgetting  your  horse." 

"No,"  said  Ralston.  "The  horse  can  follow.  Let 
us  walk  a  little.     It  is  a  good  thing  to  walk." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  weather 
was  getting  hot.  And  it  is  said  that  the  heat  of  Peshaw- 
ur  is  beyond  the  heat  of  any  other  city  from  the  hills 
to  Cape  Comorin.  Futteh  Ali  Shah,  however,  could 
not  refuse.  Regretfully  he  signalled  to  his  own  groom 
who  stood  apart  in  charge  of  a  fine  dark  bay  stallion 
from  the  Kirghiz  Steppes.  The  two  men  walked  out 
from  the  garden  and  down  the  road  towards  Peshawur 
city,  with  their  horses  following  behind  them. 

"We  will  go  this  way,"  said  Ralston,  and  he  turned 
to  the  left  and  walked  along  a  mud-walled  lane  between 
rich  orchards  heavy  with  fruit.  For  a  mile  they  thus 
walked,  and  then  Futteh  Ali  Shah  stopped  and  said: 

"I  am  very  anxious  to  have  your  Excellency's  opinion 
of  my  horse.     I  am  very  proud  of  it." 

"Later  on,"  said  Ralston,  carelessly.  "I  want  to 
walk  for  a  little";  and,  conversing  upon  indifferent 
topics,  they  skirted  the  city  and  came  out  upon  the 
broad  open  road  which  runs  to  Jamrud  and  the  Khybei 
Pass. 

224 


A  GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

It  was  here  that  Futteh  AH  Shah  onee  more  pressingly 
invited  Ralston  to  try  the  paces  of  his  stalUon.  But 
Ralston  again  refused. 

"  I  will  with  pleasure  later  on/'  he  said.  '  But  a  little 
exercise  will  be  good  for  both  of  us  ;  and  they  continued 
to  walk  along  the  road.  The  heat  was  overpowering; 
Futteh  iili  Shah  was  soft  from  too  much  good  living;  his 
thin  patent-leather  shoes  began  to  draw  his  feet  and  gall 
his  heels;  his  frock  coat  was  tight;  the  perspiration 
poured  down  his  face.  Ralston  was  hot,  too.  But  he 
strode  on  with  apparent  unconcern,  and  talked  with 
the  utmost  friendliness  on  the  municipal  affairs  of 
Peshawur. 

"It  is  very  hot,"  said  Futteh  Ali  Shah,  "and  I  am 
afraid  for  your  Excellency's  health.  For  myself,  of 
course,  I  am  not  troubled,  but  so  much  walking  will  be 
dangerous  to  you";  and  he  halted  and  looked  longingly 
back  to  his  horse. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ralston.  " But  my  horse  is  fresh, 
and  I  should  not  be  able  to  talk  to  you  so  well.  I  do 
not  feel  that  I  am  in  danger." 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  mopped  his  face  and  walked  on. 
His  feet  blistered ;  he  began  to  limp,  and  he  had  nothing 
but  a  riding-switch  in  his  hand.  Now  across  the  plain 
he  saw  in  the  distance  the  round  fort  of  Jamrud,  and 
he  suddenly  halted: 

"I  must  sit  down,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  help  it,  your 
Excellency,  I  must  stop  and  sit  down." 

225 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Ralston  turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  cold  surprise. 

'*  Before  me,  Futteh  AM  Shah  ?  You  will  sit  down  in 
my  presence  before  I  sit  down  ?     I  think  you  will  not." 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  gazed  up  the  road  and  down  the 
road,  and  saw  no  help  anywhere.  Only  this  devilish 
Chief  Commissioner  stood  threateningly  before  him. 
With  a  gesture  of  despair  he  wiped  his  face  and  walked 
on.  For  a  mile  more  he  limped  on  by  Ralston's  side, 
the  while  Ralston  discoursed  upon  the  great  question  of 
Agricultural  Banks.  Then  he  stopped  again  and 
blurted  out: 

"  I  will  give  you  no  more  trouble.  If  your  Excellency 
will  let  me  go,  never  again  will  I  give  you  trouble.  I 
swear  it." 

Ralston  smiled.  He  had  had  enough  of  the  walk 
himself. 

"And   Rabat   Mian?"   he   asked. 

There  was  a  momentary  struggle  in  the  zemindar's 
mind.  But  his  fatigue  and  exhaustion  were  too  heavy 
upon  him. 

"  He,  too,  shall  go  his  own  way.  Neither  I  nor  mine 
shall  molest  him." 

Ralston  turned  at  once  and  mounted  his  horse.  With 
a  sigh  of  relief  Futteh  Ali  Shah  followed  his  example. 

"Shall  we  ride  back  together?"  said  Ralston,  pleas- 
antly. And  as  on  the  way  out  he  had  made  no  mention 
of  any  trouble  between  the  landowner  and  himself,  so 
he  did  not  refer  to  il  by  a  single  word  on  his  way  back. 

226 


A   GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

But  close  to  the  city  their  ways  parted  and  Futteh 
AH  Shah,  as  he  took  his  leave,  said  hesitatingly, 

"If  this  story  goes  abroad,  your  Excellency — this 
story  of  how  we  walked  together  towards  Jamrud — 
there  will  be  much  laughter  and  ridicule." 

The  fear  of  ridicule — there  was  the  weak  point  of 
the  Afridi,  as  Ralston  very  well  knew.  To  be  laughed 
at — Futteh  Ali  Shah,  who  was  wont  to  lord  it  among 
his  friends,  writhed  under  the  mere  possibility.  And 
how  they  w^oukl  laugh  in  and  round  about  Peshawur! 
A  fine  figure  he  would  cut  as  he  rode  through  the  streets 
with  every  ragged  bystander  jeering  at  the  man  who 
was  walked  into  docility  and  submission  by  his  Excel- 
lency the  Chief  Commissioner. 

"My  life  would  be  intolerable,"  he  said,  "were  the 
story  to  get  about." 

Ralston  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  why  should  it  get  about?" 

"I  do  not  know,  but  it  surely  will.  It  may  be  that 
the  trees  have  ears  and  eyes  and  a  mouth  to  speak." 
He  edged  a  little  nearer  to  the  Commissioner.  "It 
may  be,  too,"  he  said  cunningly,  "that  your  Excellency 
loves  to  tell  a  good  story  after  dinner.  Now  there  is 
one  way  to  stop  that  story." 

Ralston  laughed.  "If  I  could  hold  my  tongue,  you 
mean,"  he  replied. 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  came  nearer  still.  He  rode  up  close 
and  leaned  a  little  over  towards  Ralston. 

227 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Your  Excellency  would  lose  the  story,"  he  said, 
"but  on  the  other  hand  there  would  be  a  gain — a  gain 
of  many  hours  of  sleep  passed  otherwise  in  guessing." 

He  spoke  in  an  insinuating  fashion,  which  made 
Ralston  disinclined  to  strike  a  bargain — and  he  nodded 
his  head  like  one  who  wishes  to  convey  that  he  could  tell 
much  if  only  he  would.  But  Ralston  paused  before  he 
answered,  and  when  he  answered  it  was  only  to  put  a 
question. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

And  the  reply  came  in  a  low  quick  voice. 

"There  was  a  message  sent  through  Chiltistan." 

Ralston  started.  Was  it  in  this  strange  way  the  truth 
was  to  come  to  him?  He  sat  his  horse  carelessly. 
"I  know,"  he  said.  "Some  melons  and  some  bags  of 
grain." 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  was  disappointed.  This  devihsh 
Chief  Commissioner  knew  everything.  Yet  the  story 
of  the  walk  must  not  get  abroad  in  Peshawur,  and  surely 
it  would  unless  the  Chief  Commissioner  were  pledged  to 
silence.     He  drew  a  bow  at  a  venture. 

"Can  your  Excellency  interpret  the  message?  As 
they  interpret  it  in  Chiltistan?"  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  this  time  struck  true.  "  It  is  a  Httle  thing 
I  ask  of  your  Excellency." 

"It  is  not  a  great  thing,  to  be  sure,"  Ralston  ad- 
mitted. He  looked  at  the  zemindar  and  laughed. 
"  But  I  could  tell  the  story  rather  well,"  he  said  doubt- 

228 


A   GIFT  MISUNDERSTOOD 

fully.  "It  would  be  an  amusing  story  as  I  should  tell 
it.  Yet — well,  we  will  see,"  and  he  changed  his  ton'^ 
suddenly.  "Interpret  to  me  that  present  as  it  is  in- 
terpreted in  the  villages  of  Chiltistan." 

Futteh  Ali  Shah  looked  about  him  fearfully,  making 
sure  that  there  was  no  one  within  earshot.  Then  in  a 
whisper  he  said:  "The  grain  is  the  army  which  will 
rise  up  from  the  hills  and  descend  from  the  heavens  to 
destroy  the  power  of  the  Government.  The  melons 
are  the  forces  of  the  Government ;  for  as  easily  as  melons 
they  will  be  cut  into  pieces." 

He  rode  off  quickly  when  he  had  ended,  like  a  man 
who  understands  that  he  has  said  too  much,  and  then 
halted  and  returned. 

"You  will  not  tell  that  story?"  he  said. 

"No,"  answered  Ralston  abstractedly.  "I  shall 
never  tell  that  story." 

He  understood  the  truth  at  last.  So  that  was  the 
message  which  Shere  Ali  had  sent.  No  wonder,  he 
thought,  that  the  glare  broadened  over  Chiltistan. 


229 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  SOLDIER  AND   THE  JEW 

These  two  events  took  place  at  Peshawur,  while 
Linforth  was  still  upon  the  waters  of  the  Red  Sea.  To 
be  quite  exact,  on  that  morning  when  Ralston  was  tak- 
ing his  long  walk  towards  Jamrud  with  the  zemindar 
Futteh  Ali  Shah,  Linforth  was  watching  impatiently 
from  his  deck-chair  the  high  mosque  towers,  the  white 
domes  and  great  houses  of  Mocha,  as  they  shimmered  in 
the  heat  at  the  water's  edge  against  a  wide  background 
of  yellow  sand.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  long  narrow 
city  so  small  and  clear  across  the  great  level  of  calm  sea 
would  never  slide  past  the  taffrail.  But  it  disappeared, 
and  in  due  course  the  ship  moved  slowly  through  the 
narrows  into  Aden  harbour.  This  was  on  a  Thursday 
evening,  and  the  steamer  stopped  in  Aden  for  three 
hours  to  coal.  The  night  came  on  hot,  windless  and 
dark.  Linforth  leaned  over  the  side,  looking  out  upon 
the  short  curve  of  lights  and  the  black  mass  of  hill 
rising  dimly  above  them.  Three  and  a  half  more  days 
and  he  would  be  standing  on  Indian  soil.  A  bright 
light  flashed  towards  the  ship  across  the  water  and  a 
launch  came  alongside,  bearing  the  agent  of  the  com- 
pany. 

230 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE   JEW 

He  had  the  latest  telegrams  in  his  hand. 

"Any  trouble  on  the  Frontier?"  Linforth  asked. 

"None,"  the  agent  replied,  and  Linforth's  fever  of 
impatience  was  assuaged.  If  trouble  were  threatening 
he  would  surely  be  in  time — since  there  were  only 
three  and  a  half  more  days. 

But  he  did  not  know  why  he  had  been  brought  out 
from  England,  and  the  three  and  a  half  days  made  him 
by  just  three  and  a  half  days  too  late.  For  on  this 
very  night  when  the  steamer  stopped  to  coal  in  Aden 
harbour  Shere  Ali  made  his  choice. 

He  was  present  that  evening  at  a  prize-fight  which 
took  place  in  a  music-hall  at  Calcutta.  The  light- 
weight champion  of  Singapore  and  the  East,  a  Jew,  was 
pitted  against  a  young  soldier  who  had  secured  his 
discharge  and  had  just  taken  to  boxing  as  a  profession. 
The  soldier  brought  a  great  reputation  as  an  amateur. 
This  was  his  first  appearance  as  a  professional,  and  his 
friends  had  gathered  in  numbers  to  encourage  him. 
The  hall  was  crowded  with  soldiers  from  the  barracks, 
sailors  from  the  fleet,  and  patrons  of  the  fancy  in  Cal- 
cutta. The  heat  was  overpowering,  the  audience  noisy, 
and  overhead  the  electric  fans,  which  hung  downwards 
from  the  ceiling,  whirled  above  the  spectators  with  so 
swift  a  rotation  that  those  looking  up  saw  only  a  vague 
blur  in  the  air.  The  ring  had  been  roped  off  upon  the 
stage,  and  about  three  sides  of  the  ring  chairs  for  the 
privileged  had  been  placed.     The  fourth  side  was  open 

231 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

to  the  spectators  in  the  hall,  and  behind  the  ropes  at 
the  back  there  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  row  of  chairs  a 
fat  red-faced  man  in  evening-dress  who  was  greeted  on 
all  sides  as  Colonel  Joe.  "  Colonel  Joe  '^  was  the  referee, 
and  a  person  on  these  occasions  of  great  importance. 

There  were  several  preliminary  contests  and  before 
each  one  Colonel  Joe  came  to  the  front  and  introduced 
the  combatants  with  a  short  history  of  their  achieve- 
ments. A  Hindu  boy  was  matched  against  a  white  one, 
a  couple  of  wrestlers  came  next,  and  then  two  English 
sailors,  with  more  spirit  than  skill,  had  a  set-to  which 
warmed  the  audience  into  enthusiasm  and  ended  amid 
shouts,  whistles,  shrill  cat-calls,  and  thunders  of  ap- 
plause. Meanwhile  the  heat  grew  more  and  more  in- 
tense, the  faces  shinier,  the  air  more  and  more  smoke- 
laden  and  heavy. 

Shere  Ali  came  on  to  the  stage  while  the  sailors  were 
at  work.  He  exchanged  a  nod  with  "Colonel  Joe," 
and  took  his  seat  in  the  front  row  of  chairs  behind  the 
ropes. 

It  was  a  rough  gathering  on  the  whole,  though  there 
were  some  men  in  evening-dress  besides  Colonel  Joe, 
and  of  these  two  sat  beside  Shere  Ali.  They  were  talk- 
ing together,  and  Shere  Ali  at  the  first  paid  no  heed  to 
them.  The  trainers,  the  backers,  the  pugilists  them- 
selves were  the  men  who  had  become  his  associates  in 
Calcutta.  There  were  many  of  them  present  upon  the 
stage,  and  in  turn  they  approached  Shere  Ali  and  spoke 

232 


THE  SOLDIER   AND   THE   JEW 

to  him  with  famiharity  upon  the  chances  of  the  fight. 
Yet  in  their  famiharity  there  was  a  kind  of  deference. 
They  were  speaking  to  a  patron.  Moreover,  there  was 
some  flattery  in  the  attention  with  which  they  waited  to 
catch  his  eye  and  the  eagerness  with  which  they  came 
at  once  to  his  side. 

"We  are  all  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  a  small  man 
who  had  been  a  jockey  until  he  was  warned  off  the  turf. 

"Yes,"  said  Shere  All  with  a  smile,  "I  am  among 
friends." 

"Now  who  would  you  say  was  going  to  win  this 
fight?"  continued  the  jockey,  cocking  his  head  with  an 
air  of  shrewdness,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words, 
"You  are  the  one  to  tell  if  you  will  only  say." 

Shere  Ali  expanded.  Deference  and  flattery,  how- 
ever gross,  so  long  as  they  came  from  white  people  were 
balm  to  his  wounded  vanity.  The  weeks  in  Calcutta 
had  worked  more  harm  than  Ralston  had  suspected. 
Shy  of  meeting  those  who  had  once  treated  him  as  an 
equal,  imagining  when  he  did  meet  them  that  now  they 
only  admitted  him  to  their  company  on  sufferance  and 
held  him  in  their  thoughts  of  no  account,  he  had  be- 
come avid  for  recognition  among  the  riff-raff  of  the 
town. 

"I  have  backed  the  man  from  Singapore,"  he  replied, 
"I  know  him.  The  soldier  is  a  stranger  to  me";  and 
gradually  as  he  talked  the  voices  of  his  two  neighbours 
forced  themselves  upon  his  consciousness.     It  was  not 

233 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

what  they  said  which  caught  his  attention.  But  their 
accents  and  the  pitch  of  their  voices  arrested  him,  and 
swept  him  back  to  his  days  at  Eton  and  at  Oxford.  He 
turned  his  head  and  looked  carelessly  towards  them. 
They  were  both  young;  both  a  year  ago  might  have 
been  his  intimates  and  friends.  As  it  was,  he  imagined 
bitterly,  they  probably  resented  his  sitting  even  in  the 
next  chair  to  them. 

The  stage  was  now  clear;  the  two  sailors  had  de- 
parted, the  audience  sat  waiting  for  the  heroes  of  the 
evening  and  calling  for  them  with  impatient  outbursts 
of  applause.  Shere  Ali  waited  too.  But  there  was  no 
impatience  on  his  part,  as  there  was  no  enthusiasm. 
He  was  just  getting  through  the  evening;  and  this  hot 
and  crowded  den,  with  its  glitter  of  lights,  promised  a 
thrill  of  excitement  which  would  for  a  moment  lift  him 
from  the  torture  of  his  thoughts. 

But  the  antagonists  still  lingered  in  their  dressing- 
rooms  while  their  trainers  put  the  final  touch  to  their 
preparations.  And  while  the  antagonists  lingered,  the 
two  young  men  next  to  him  began  again  to  talk,  and 
this  time  the  words  fell  on  Shere  All's  ears. 

"I  think  it  ought  to  be  stopped,"  said  one.  "It 
can't  be  good  for  us.  Of  course  the  fellow  who  runs 
the  circus  doesn't  care,  although  he  is  an  Englishman, 
and  although  he  must  have  understood  what  was  being 
shouted." 

"He  is  out  for  money,  of  course,"  replied  the  other. 

234 


THE  SOLDIER   AND  THE  JEW 

"Yes.  But  not  half  a  mile  away,  just  across  the 
Maidan  there,  is  Government  House.  Surely  it  ought 
to  be  stopped." 

The  speaker  was  evidently  serious.  He  spoke,  in- 
deed, with  some  heat.  Shere  Ali  wondered  indiffer- 
ently what  it  was  that  went  on  in  the  circus  in  the 
Maidan  half  a  mile  from  the  Government  House. 
Something  which  ought  to  be  stopped,  something 
which  could  not  be  "good  for  us."  Shere  Ali  clenched 
his  hands  in  a  gust  of  passion.  How  well  he  knew  the 
phrase!  Good  for  us,  good  for  the  magic  of  British 
prestige!  How  often  he  had  used  the  words  himself 
in  the  days  when  he  had  been  fool  enough  to  believe 
that  he  belonged  to  the  white  people.  He  had  used  it 
in  the  company  of  just  such  youths  as  those  who  sat 
next  to  him  now,  and  he  writhed  in  his  seat  as  he  im- 
agined how  they  must  have  laughed  at  him  in  their 
hearts.  What  was  it  that  was  not  "good  for  us"  in 
the  circus  on  the  Maidan  ? 

As  he  wondered  there  was  a  burst  of  applause,  and 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ring  the  soldier,  stripped  to 
the  waist,  entered  with  his  two  assistants.  Shere  Ali 
was  sitting  close  to  the  lower  corner  of  the  ring  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  stage;  the  soldier  took  his  seat 
in  the  upper  corner  on  the  other  side.  He  was  a  big, 
heavily-built  man,  but  young,  active,  and  upon  his  open 
face  he  had  a  look  of  confidence.  It  seemed  to  Shere 
Ali  that  he  had  been  trained  to  the  very  perfection  of 

235 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

his  strength,  and  when  he  moved  the  muscles  upon  his 
shoulders  and  back  worked  under  his  skin  as  though 
they  lived.  Shouts  greeted  him,  shouts  in  which  his 
surname  and  his  Christian  name  and  his  nicknames 
were  mingled,  and  he  smiled  pleasantly  back  at  his 
friends.  Shere  Ali  looked  at  him.  From  his  cheery, 
honest  face  to  the  firm  set  of  his  feet  upon  the  floor,  he 
was  typical  of  his  class  and  race. 

"Oh,  I  hope  he'll  be  beaten!" 

Shere  Ali  found  himself  repeating  the  words  in  a 
whisper.  The  wish  had  suddenly  sprung  up  within 
him,  but  it  grew  in  intensity ;  it  became  a  great  long- 
ing. He  looked  anxiously  for  the  appearance  of 
the  Jew  from  Singapore.  He  was  glad  that,  know- 
ing little  of  either  man,  he  had  laid  his  money  against 
the  soldier. 

Meanwhile  the  two  youths  beside  him  resumed  their 
talk,  and  Shere  Ali  learned  what  it  was  that  was  not 
"good  for  us"! 

"There  were  four  girls,"  said  the  youth  who  had  been 
most  indignant.  "  Four  English  girls  dancing  a  pas  de 
quatre  on  the  sand  of  the  circus.  The  dance  was  all 
right,  the  dresses  were  all  right.  In  an  English  theatre 
no  one  would  have  had  a  word  to  say.  It  was  the  au- 
dience that  was  wrong.  The  cheaper  parts  at  the  back 
of  the  tent  were  crowded  with  natives,  tier  above  tier — 
and  I  tell  you — I  don't  know  much  Hindustani,  but 
the  things  they  shouted  made  my  blood  boil.     After 

236 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  JEW 

all,  if  you  are  going  to  be  the  governing  race  it's  not  a 
good  thing  to  let  your  women  be  insulted,  eh  ?  " 

Shere  Ali  laughed  quietly.  He  could  picture  to  him- 
self the  whole  scene,  the  floor  of  the  circus,  the  tiers  of 
grinning  faces  rising  up  against  the  back  walls  of  the 
tent. 

"  Did  the  girls  themselves  mind  ? "  asked  the  other  of 
the  youths. 

"They  didn't  understand."  And  again  the  angry 
utterance  followed.  "It  ought  to  be  stopped!  It 
ought  to  be  stopped!'* 

Shere  Ali  turned  suddenly  upon  the  speaker. 

"Why?"  he  asked  fiercely,  and  he  thrust  a  savage 
face  towards  him. 

The  young  man  was  taken  by  surprise;  for  a  second 
it  warmed  Shere  Ali  to  think  that  he  was  afraid.  And, 
indeed,  there  was  very  little  of  the  civilised  man  in 
Shere  All's  look  at  this  moment.  His  own  people  were 
claiming  him.  It  was  one  of  the  keen  grim  tribesmen 
of  the  hills  who  challenged  the  young  Englishman.  The 
Englishman,  however,  was  not  afraid.  He  was  merely 
disconcerted  by  the  unexpected  attack.  He  recovered 
his  composure  the  next  moment. 

"I  don't  think  that  I  was  speaking  to  you/'  he  said 
quietly,  and  then  turned  away. 

Shere  Ali  half  rose  in  his  seat.  But  he  was  not  yet 
quite  emancipated  from  the  traditions  of  his  upbringing. 
To  create  a  disturbance  in  a  public  place,  to  draw  all 

237 


THE   BROKEN   ROAD 

eyes  upon  himself,  to  look  a  fool,  eventually  to  be  turned 
ignominiously  into  the  street — all  this  he  was  within  an 
ace  of  doing  and  suffering,  but  he  refrained.  He  sat 
down  again  quickly,  feeling  hot  and  cold  with  shame, 
just  as  he  remembered  he  had  been  wont  to  feel  when 
he  had  committed  some  gaucherie  in  his  early  days  in 
England. 

At  that  moment  the  light-weight  champion  from 
Singapore  came  out  from  his  dressing-room  and  entered 
the  ring.  He  was  of  a  slighter  build  than  his  opponent, 
but  very  quick  upon  his  feet.  He  was  shorter,  too. 
Colonel  Joe  introduced  the  antagonists  to  the  audience, 
standing  before  the  footlights  as  he  did  so.  And  it  was 
at  once  evident  who  was  the  favourite.  The  shouts  were 
nearly  all  for  the  soldier. 

The  Jew  took  his  seat  in  a  chair  down  in  the  corner 
where  Shere  Ali  was  sitting,  and  Shere  Ali  leaned  over 
the  ropes  and  whispered  to  him  fiercely, 

"Win!     Win!     I'll  double  the  stake  if  you  do!" 

The  Jew  turned  and  smiled  at  the  young  Prince. 

"Ell  do  my  best." 

Shere  Ali  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  the  fight  be- 
gan. He  followed  it  with  an  excitement  and  a  suspense 
which  were  astonishing  even  to  him.  When  the  soldier 
brought  his  fist  home  upon  the  prominent  nose  of  the 
Singapore  champion  and  plaudits  resounded  through 
the  house,  his  heart  sank  with  bitter  disappointment. 
When  the  Jew  replied  with  a  dull  body-blow,  his  hopes 

238 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE   JEW 

rebounded.  He  soon  began  to  understand  that  in  the 
arts  of  prize-fighting  the  soldier  was  a  child  compared 
with  the  man  from  Singapore.  The  Champion  of  the 
East  knew  his  trade.  He  was  as  hard  as  iron.  The 
sounding  blows  upon  his  forehead  and  nose  did  no 
more  than  flush  his  face  for  a  few  moments.  Mean- 
while he  struck  for  the  body.  Moreover,  he  had  certain 
tricks  which  lured  his  antagonist  to  an  imprudent  con- 
fidence. For  instance,  he  breathed  heavily  from  the 
beginning  of  the  second  round,  as  though  he  were  clean 
out  of  condition.  But  each  round  found  him  strong 
and  quick  to  press  an  advantage.  After  one  blow, 
which  toppled  his  opponent  through  the  ropes,  Shere 
Ali  clapped  his  hands. 

"Bravo!"  he  cried;  and  one  of  the  youths  at  his  side 
said  to  his  companion: 

"This  fellow's  a  Jew,  too.  Look  at  his  face." 
For  twelve  rounds  the  combatants  seemed  still  to  be 
upon  equal  terms,  though  those  in  the  audience  who 
had  knowledge  began  to  shake  their  heads  over  the 
chances  of  the  soldier.  Shere  Ali,  however,  was  still 
racked  by  suspense.  The  fight  had  become  a  symbol, 
almost  a  message  to  him,  even  as  his  gift  to  the  Mullah 
had  become  a  message  to  the  people  of  Chiltistan.  All 
that  he  had  once  loved,  and  now  furiously  raged  against, 
was  represented  by  the  soldier,  the  confident,  big,  heav- 
ily built  soldier,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  by  the  victory 
of  the  Jew  all  the  subject  peoples  would  be  vindicated. 

239 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

More  and  more  as  the  fight  fluctuated  from  round  to 
round  the  people  and  the  country  of  ChiUistan  claimed 
Its  own.  The  soldier  represented  even  those  youths  at 
his  side,  whose  women  must  on  no  account  be  insulted. 

"Why  should  they  be  respected?"  he  cried  to  him- 
self. 

For  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  lay  the  thought  that  he 
had  been  set  aside  as  impossible  by  Violet  Oliver. 
There  was  the  real  cause  of  his  bitterness  against  the 
white  people.  He  still  longed  for  Violet  Oliver,  still 
greatly  coveted  her.  But  his  own  people  and  his  own 
country  were  claiming  him;  and  he  longed  for  her  in  a 
different  way.  Chivalry — the  chivalry  of  the  young 
man  who  wants  to  guard  and  cherish — respect,  the  de- 
sire that  the  loved  one  should  share  ambitions,  life  w^ork, 
all — what  follies  and  illusions  these  things  were! 

"I  know,"  said  Shere  Ah  to  himself.  "I  know.  I 
am  myself  the  victim  of  them,"  and  he  lowered  his  head 
and  clasped  his  hands  tightly  together  between  his  knees. 
He  forgot  the  prize-fight,  the  very  sound  of  the  pugil- 
ists' feet  upon  the  bare  boards  of  the  stage  ceased  to  be 
audible  to  his  ears.  He  ached  like  a  man  bruised  and 
beaten;  he  was  possessed  with  a  sense  of  loneliness, 
poignant  as  pain.  "  If  I  had  only  taken  the  easier  way, 
bought  and  never  cared ! "  he  cried  despairingly.  "  But 
at  all  events  there's  no  need  for  respect.  Why  should 
one  respect  those  who  take  and  do  not  give?" 

As  he  asked  himself  the  question,  there  came  a  roar 

240 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE   JEW 

from  the  audience.  He  looked  up.  The  soldier  was 
standing,  but  he  was  stooping  and  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
touched  the  boards.  Over  against  the  soldier  the  man 
from  Singapore  stood  waiting  with  steady  eyes,  and  be- 
hind the  ropes  Colonel  Joe  was  counting  in  a  loud 
voice : 

"One,  two,  three,  four." 

Shere  Ali's  eyes  lit  up.  Would  the  soldier  rise? 
Would  he  take  the  tips  of  those  fingers  from  the  floor, 
stand  up  again  and  face  his  man  ?     Or  was  he  beaten  ? 

"Five,  six,  seven,  eight" — the  referee  counted,  his 
voice  rising  above  the  clamour  of  voices.  The  audi- 
ence had  risen,  men  stood  upon  their  benches,  cries  of 
expostulation  were  shouted  to  the  soldier. 

"Nine,  ten,"  counted  the  referee,  and  the  fight  was 
over.     The  soldier  had  been  counted  out. 

Shere  Ali  was  upon  his  feet  like  the  rest  of  the  en- 
thusiasts. 

"Well  done!"  he  cried.  "Well  done!"  and  as  the 
Jew  came  back  to  his  corner  Shere  Ali  shook  him  ex- 
citedly by  the  hand.  The  sign  had  been  given;  the  sub- 
ject race  had  beaten  the  soldier.  Shere  Ali  was  livid 
with  excitement.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the  young  Eng- 
lishmen had  been  right,  and  some  dim  racial  sympathy 
stirred  Shere  Ali  to  his  great  enthusiasm. 


241 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SHERE   ALI   IS   CLAIMED   BY   CHILTISTAN 

While  these  thoughts  were  seething  in  his  mind,  while 
the  excitement  was  still  at  its  height,  the  cries  still  at 
their  loudest,  Shere  Ali  heard  a  quiet  penetrating  voice 
speak  in  his  ear.     And  the  voice  spoke  in  Pushtu. 

The  mere  sound  of  the  language  struck  upon  Shere 
All's  senses  at  that  moment  of  exultation  with  a  strange 
effect.  He  thrilled  to  it  from  head  to  foot.  He  heard 
it  with  a  feeling  of  joy.  And  then  he  took  note  of  the 
spoken  words. 

"  The  man  who  wrote  to  your  Highness  from  Calcutta 
waits  outside  the  doors.  As  you  stand  under  the  gas 
lamps,  take  your  handkerchief  from  your  pocket  if  you 
wish  to  speak  with  him." 

Shere  Ali  turned  back  from  the  ropes.  But  the  spec- 
tators were  already  moving  from  their  chairs  to  the  steps 
which  led  from  the  stage  to  the  auditorium.  There 
was  a  crowd  about  those  steps,  and  Shere  Ali  could  not 
distinguish  among  it  the  man  who  was  likely  to  have 
whispered  in  his  ear.  All  seemed  bent  upon  their  own 
business,  and  that  business  was  to  escape  from  the  close 
heat-laden  air  of  the  building  as  quickly  as  might  be. 

Shere  Ali  stood  alone  and  pondered  upon  the  words. 

242 


SIIERE  ALI   IS   CTvAIMEI)   BY  CHIl/nSTAN 

The  man  who  had  written  to  him  from  Calcutta!  That 
was  the  man  who  had  sent  the  anonymous  letter  which 
had  caused  him  one  day  to  pass  through  the  Delhi  Gate 
of  Lahore.  A  money-lender  at  Calcutta,  but  a  country- 
man from  Chiltistan.  So  he  had  gathered  from  Safdar 
Khan,  while  heaping  scorn  upon  the  message. 

But  now,  and  on  this  night  of  all  nights,  Shere  Ali 
was  in  a  mood  to  listen.  There  were  intrigues  on  foot — 
there  were  always  intrigues  on  foot.  But  to-night  he 
would  weigh  those  intrigues.  He  went  out  from  the 
music-hall,  and  under  the  white  glare  of  the  electric 
lamps  above  the  door  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  full  view. 
Then  he  deliberately  took  his  handerckhief  from  his 
pocket.  From  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  a  man  in 
native  dress,  wearing  a  thick  dark  cloak  over  his  white 
shirt  and  pyjamas,  stepped  forward.  Shere  Ali  ad- 
vanced to  meet  him. 

"Huzoor,  huzoor,"  said  the  man,  bending  low,  and 
he  raised  Shere  Ali's  hand  and  pressed  his  forehead  upon 
it,  in  sign  of  loyalty. 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  me?"  said  Shere  Ali. 

"If  your  Highness  will  deign  to  follow.  I  am 
Ahmed  Ismail.  Your  Highness  has  heard  of  me,  no 
doubt." 

Shere  Ali  did  not  so  much  as  smile,  nor  did  he  deny 
the  statement.  He  nodded  gravely.  After  all,  vanity 
was  not  the  prerogative  of  his  people  alone  in  all  the 
world. 

243 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will  follow." 

Ahmed  Ismail  crossed  the  road  once  more  out  of  the 
lights  into  the  shadows,  and  walked  on,  keeping  close 
to  the  lines  of  houses.  Shere  Ali  followed  upon  his 
heels.  But  these  two  were  not  alone  to  take  that  road. 
A  third  man,  a  Bengali,  bespectacled,  and  in  appearance 
most  respectable,  came  down  the  steps  of  the  music- 
hall,  a  second  after  Shere  Ali  had  crossed  the  road. 
He,  too,  had  been  a  witness  of  the  prize-fight.  He 
hurried  after  Shere  Ali  and  caught  him  up. 

"Very  good  fight,  sir,"  he  said.  "Would  Prince  of 
Chiltistan  like  to  utter  some  few  welcome  words  to 
great  Indian  public  on  extraordinary  skill  of  respective 
pugilists  ?  I  am  full-fledged  reporter  of  Bande  Mataram, 
great  Nationalist  paper." 

He  drew  out  a  note-book  and  a  pencil  as  he  spoke. 
Ahmed  Ismail  stopped  and  turned  back  towards  the 
two  men.  The  Babu  looked  once,  and  only  once,  at 
the  money-lender.  Then  he  stood  waiting  for  Shere 
All's  answer. 

"No,  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  said  Shere  All  civilly. 
"  Good-night,"  and  he  walked  on. 

"Great  disappointment  for  Indian  public,"  said  the 
Bengali.  "Prince  of  Chiltistan  will  say  nothing.  I 
make  first-class  leading  article  on  reticence  of  Indian 
Prince  in  presence  of  high-class  spectacular  events. 
Good-night,  sir,"  and  the  Babu  shut  up  his  book  and 
fell  back. 

244 


SHERE  ALI  IS  CLAIMED  BY  CHILTISTAN 

Shere  Ali  followed  upon  the  heels  of  Ahmed  Ismail. 
The  money-lender  walked  down  the  street  to  the  Mai- 
dan,  and  then  turned  to  the  left.  The  Babu,  on  the 
other  hand,  hailed  a  third-class  gharry  and,  ascend- 
ing into  it.  gave  the  driver  some  whispered  in- 
structions. 

The  gharry  drove  on  past  the  Bengal  Club,  and 
came,  at  length,  to  the  native  town.  At  the  corner  of 
a  street  the  Babu  descended,  paid  the  driver,  and  dis- 
missed him. 

"I  will  walk  the  rest  of  the  way,"  he  said.  "My 
home  is  quite  near  and  a  little  exercise  is  good.  I  have 
large  varicose  veins  in  the  legs,  or  I  should  have  tramped 
hand  and  foot  all  the  way." 

He  walked  slowly  until  the  driver  had  turned  his 
gharry  and  was  driving  back.  Then,  for  a  man 
afflicted  with  varicose  veins  the  Babu  displayed  amaz- 
ing agility.  He  ran  through  the  silent  and  deserted 
street  until  he  came  to  a  turning.  The  lane  w^hich  ran 
into  the  main  road  was  a  blind  alley.  Mean  hovels  and 
shuttered  booths  flanked  it,  but  at  the  end  a  taU  house 
stood.  The  Babu  looked  about  him  and  perceived  a 
cart  standing  in  the  lane.  He  advanced  to  it  and 
looked  in. 

"This  is  obvious  place  for  satisfactory  concealment," 
he  said,  as  with  some  difficulty  he  clambered  in.  Over 
the  edge  of  the  cart  he  kept  watch.  In  a  while  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  man  walking.     The  man  was  certainly 

245 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

at  some  distance  from  the  turning,  but  the  Babu's  head 
went  down  at  once.  The  man  whose  footsteps  he 
heard  was  wearing  boots,  but  there  would  be  one  walk- 
ing in  front  of  that  man  who  was  wearing  slippers — 
Ahmed  Ismail. 

Ahmed  Ismail,  indeed,  turned  an  instant  afterwards 
into  the  lane,  parsed  the  cart  and  walked  up  to  the  door 
of  the  big  house.  There  he  halted,  and  Shere  Ali 
joined  him. 

"The  gift  was  understood,  your  Highness,"  he  said. 
"The  message  was  sent  from  end  to  end  of  Chiltistan." 

"What  gift?"  asked  Shere  Ali,  in  genuine  surprise. 

"  Your  Highness  has  forgotten  ?  The  melons  and  the 
bags  of  grain." 

Shere  Ali  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
said : 

"And  how  was  the  gift  interpreted?" 

Ahmed  Ismail  smiled  in  the  darkness. 

"There  are  wise  men  in  Chiltistan,  and  they  found 
the  riddle  easy  to  read.  The  melons  were  the  infidels 
which  would  be  cut  to  pieces,  even  as  a  knife  cuts  a 
melon.     The  grain  was  the  army  of  the  faithful." 

Again  Shere  Ali  was  silent.  He  stood  with  his  eyes 
upon  his  companion. 

"Thus  they  understand  my  gift  to  the  Mullah?"  he 
said  at  length. 

"Thus  they  understood  it,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail. 
"Were  they  wrong?"  and  since  Shere  Ali  paused  be- 

246 


SHERE  ALI  IS  CLAIMED  BY  CHILTISTAN 

fore  he  answered,  Ahmed  repeated  the  question,  hold- 
ing the  while  the  key  of  his  door  between  his  fingers. 
"Were  they  wrong,  your  Highness?" 
"No,"  said  Shere  Ali  firmly.     "They  were  right." 
Ahmed  Ismail  put  the  key  into  the  lock.     The  bolt 
shot  back  with  a  grating  sound,  the  door  opened  upon 
blackness. 

"Will  your  Highness  deign  to  enter?"  he  said,  stand- 
ing aside. 

"Yes,"  said  Shere  Ali,  and  he  passed  in.  His  own 
people,  his  own  country,  had  claimed  and  obtained 
him. 


247 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   CASTING   OF   THE   DIE 

Ahmed  Ismail  crossed  the  threshold  behind  Shere 
Ali.  He  closed  the  door  quietly,  bolted  and  locked  it. 
Then  for  a  space  of  time  the  two  men  stood  silent  in 
the  darkness,  and  both  listened  intently — Ahmed  Ismail 
for  the  sound  of  someone  stirring  in  the  house,  Shere 
Ali  for  a  quiet  secret  movement  at  his  elbow.  The 
blackness  of  the  passage  gaping  as  the  door  opened  had 
roused  him  to  suspicion  even  while  he  had  been  stand- 
ing in  the  street.  But  he  had  not  thought  of  drawing 
back.  He  had  entered  without  fear,  just  as  now  he 
stood,  without  fear,  drawn  up  against  the  wall.  There 
was,  indeed,  a  smile  upon  his  face.  Then  he  reached 
out  his  hand.  Ahmed  Ismail,  who  still  stood  afraid 
lest  any  of  his  family  should  have  been  disturbed,  sud- 
denly felt  a  light  touch,  like  a  caress,  upon  his  face,  and 
then  before  he  could  so  much  as  turn  his  head,  five 
strong  lean  fingers  gripped  him  by  the  throat  and 
tightened. 

"Ahmed,  I  have  enemies  in  Chiltistan,"  said  Shere 
Ali,  between  a  whisper  and  a  laugh.  "The  son  of  Ab- 
dulla  Mohammed,  for  instance,"  and  he  loosened  his 
grip  a  little  upon  Ahmed's  throat,  but  held  him  still 

248 


THE  CASTING  OF  THE   DIE 

with  a  straight  arm.  Ahmed  did  not  struggle.  He 
whispered  in  reply: 

"  I  am  not  of  your  Highness's  enemies.  Long  ago  I 
gave  your  Highness  a  sign  of  friendship  when  I  prayed 
you  to  pass  by  the  Delhi  Gate  of  Lahore." 

Shere  Ali  turned  Ahmed  Ismail  towards  the  inner 
part  of  the  house  and  loosed  his  neck. 

''Go  forward,  then.  Light  a  lamp,"  he  said,  and 
Ahmed  moved  noiselessly  along  the  passage.  Shere  Ali 
heard  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  upstairs,  and  then  a 
pale  light  gleamed  from  above.  Shere  Ali  walked  to 
the  end  of  the  passage,  and  mounting  the  stairs  found 
Ahmed  Ismail  in  the  doorway  of  a  little  room  with  a 
lighted  lamp  in  his  hand. 

''I  was  this  moment  coming  down,"  said  Ahmed 
Ismail  as  he  stood  aside  from  the  door.  Shere  Ali 
walked  in.  He  crossed  to  the  window,  which  was  un- 
glazed  but  had  little  wooden  shutters.  These  shutters 
were  closed.  Shere  Ali  opened  one  and  looked  out. 
The  room  was  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  window  opened 
on  to  a  small  square  courtyard.  A  movement  of 
Ahmed  Ismail's  brought  him  swiftly  round.  He  saw 
the  money-lender  on  his  knees  with  his  forehead  to  the 
ground,  grovelling  before  his  Prince's  feet. 

"The  time  has  come,  oh,  my  Lord,"  he  cried  in  a 
low,  eager  voice,  and  again,  "the  time  has  come." 

Shere  Ali  looked  down  and  pleasure  glowed  un- 
wontedly  within  him.     He  did  not  answer,  he  did  not 

249 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

give  Ahmed  Ismail  leave  to  rise  from  the  ground.  He 
sated  his  eyes  and  his  vanity  with  the  spectacle  of  the 
man's  abasement.  Even  his  troubled  heart  ached  with 
a  duller  pain.. 

"  I  have  been  a  fool,"  he  murmured,  "  I  have  wasted 
my  years.  I  have  tortured  myself  for  nothing.  Yes,  I 
have  been  a  fool." 

A  wave  of  anger  swept  over  him,  drowning  his  pride 
— anger  against  himself.  He  thought  of  the  white 
people  with  whom  he  had  lived. 

"  I  sought  for  a  recognition  of  my  equality  with  them," 
he  went  on.  "I  sought  it  from  their  men  and  from  their 
women.  I  hungered  for  it  like  a  dog  for  a  bone.  They 
would  not  give  it — neither  their  men,  nor  their  women. 
And  all  the  while  here  were  my  own  people  willing  at  a 
sign  to  offer  me  their  homage." 

He  spoke  in  Pushtu,-  and  Ahmed  Ismail  drank  in 
every  w^ord. 

''They  wanted  a  leader,  Huzoor,"  he  said. 

'*  I  turned  away  from  them  like  a  fool,"  replied  Shere 
Ali,  "while  I  sought  favours  from  the  white  women  like 
a  slave." 

"Your  Highness  shall  take  as  a  right  what  you  sought 
for  as  a  favour." 

"As  a  right?"  cried  Shere  Ali,  his  heart  leaping  to 
the  incense  of  Ahmed  Ismail's  flattery.  "  What  right  ?  " 
he  asked,  suddenly  bending  his  eyes  upon  his  com- 
panion. 

250 


THE   CASTING  OF  THE   DIE 

''The  right  of  a  conqueror,"  cried  Ahmed  Ismail, 
and  he  bowed  himself  again  at  his  Prince's  feet.  He 
had  spoken  Shere  Ali's  wild  and  secret  thought.  But 
whereas  Shere  Ali  had  only  whispered  it  to  himself, 
Ahmed  Ismail  spoke  it  aloud,  boldly  and  with  a  chal- 
lenge in  his  voice,  like  one  ready  to  make  good  his 
words.  An  interval  of  silence  followed,  a  fateful  in- 
terval as  both  men  knew.  Not  a  sound  from  without 
penetrated  into  that  little  shuttered  room,  but  to  Shere 
Ali  it  seemed  that  the  air  throbbed  and  was  heavy  with 
unknown  things  to  come.  Memories  and  fancies 
whirled  in  his  disordered  brain  without  relation  to  each 
other  or  consequence  in  his  thoughts.  Now  it  was  the 
two  Englishmen  seated  side  by  side  behind  the  ropes 
and  quietly  talking  of  what  was  "not  good  for  us,"  as 
though  they  had  the  whole  of  India,  and  the  hill-dis- 
tricts, besides,  in  their  pockets.  He  saw  their  faces,  and, 
quietly  though  he  stood  and  impassive  as  he  looked,  he 
was  possessed  with  a  longing  to  behold  them  within 
reach,  so  that  he  might  strike  them  and  disfigure  them 
for  ever.  Now  it  was  Violet  Oliver  as  she  descended 
the  steps  into  the  great  courtyard  of  the  Fort,  dainty 
and  provoking  from  the  arched  slipper  upon  her  foot  to 
the  soft  perfection  of  her  hair.  He  saw  her  caught  into 
the  twilight  swirl  of  pale  white  faces  and  so  pass  from  his 
sight,  thinking  that  at  the  same  moment  she  passed 
from  his  life.  Then  it  was  the  Viceroy  in  his  box  at 
the  racecourse  and  all  Calcutta  upon  the  lawn  which 

251 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

swept  past  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  Eurasian  girls  prinked 
out  in  their  best  frocks  to  lure  into  marriage  some  un- 
wary Englishman.  And  again  it  was  Colonel  Dewes, 
the  man  who  had  lost  his  place  amongst  his  own  people, 
even  as  he,  Shere  Ali,  had  himself.  A  half-con- 
temptuous smile  of  pity  for  a  moment  softened  the 
hard  lines  of  his  mouth  as  he  thought  upon  that  forlorn 
and  elderly  man  taking  his  loneliness  with  him  into 
Cashmere. 

"That  shall  not  be  my  way,"  he  said  aloud,  and  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  hardened  again.  And  once  more 
before  his  eyes  rose  the  vision  of  Violet  Oliver. 

Ahmed  Ismail  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  stood  watch- 
ing his  Prince  with  eager,  anxious  eyes.  Shere  Ali 
crossed  to  the  table  and  turned  down  the  lamp,  which 
was  smoking.  Then  he  went  to  the  window  and  thrust 
the  shutters  open.  He  turned  round  suddenly  upon 
Ahmed. 

"Were  you  ever  in  Mecca?" 

"Yes,  Huzoor,"  and  Ahmed's  eyes  flashed  at  the 
question. 

"I  met  three  men  from  Chiltistan  on  the  Lowari 
Pass.  They  were  going  down  to  Kurachi.  I,  too, 
must  make  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca." 

He  stood  watching  the  flame  of  the  lamp  as  he  spoke, 
and  spoke  in  a  monotonous  dull  voice,  as  though  what 
he  said  were  of  little  importance.  But  Ahmed  Ismail 
listened  to  the  words,  not  the  voice,  and  his  joy  was  great 

252 


THE   CASTING   OF  THE   DIE 

It  was  as  though  he  heard  a  renegade  acknowledge  once 
more  the  true  faith. 

"Afterwards,  Huzoor,"  he  said,  significantly.  "After- 
wards."    Shere  Ali  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes,  afterwards.  When  we  have  driven  the  white 
people  down  from  the  hills  into  the  plains." 

"And  from  the  plains  into  the  sea,"  cried  Ahmed 
Ismail.  "The  angels  will  fight  by  our  side — so  the 
Mullahs  have  said — -and  no  man  who  fights  with  faith 
will  be  hurt.  All  will  be  invulnerable.  It  is  written, 
and  the  Mullahs  have  read  the  writing  and  translated 
it  through  Chiltistan." 

"Is  that  so ?"  said  Shere  Ali,  and  as  he  put  the  ques- 
tion there  was  an  irony  in  his  voice  which  Ahmed  Ismail 
was  quick  to  notice.  But  Shere  Ali  put  it  yet  a  second 
time,  after  a  pause,  and  this  time  there  was  no  trace  of 
irony. 

"But  I  will  not  go  alone,"  he  said,  suddenly  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  flame  of  the  lamp  and  looking  towards 
Ahmed  Ismail. 

Ahmed  did  not  understand.  But  also  he  did  not 
interrupt,  and  Shere  Ali  spoke  again,  with  a  smile  slowly 
creeping  over  his  face. 

"  I  will  not  go  alone  to  Mecca.  I  will  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  Sirdar  Khan." 

The  saying  was  still  a  riddle  to  Ahmed  Ismail. 

"Sirdar  Khan,  your  Highness?"  he  said.  "I  do 
not  know  him." 

253 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Shere  Ali  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  flame  of 
the  lamp,  and  the  smile  broadened  upon  his  face,  a 
thing  not  pleasant  to  see.  He  wetted  his  lips  with  the 
tip  of  his  tongue  and  told  his  story. 

"Sirdar  Khan  is  dead  long  since,"  he  said,  "but  he 
was  one  of  the  five  men  of  the  bodyguard  of  Nana,  who 
went  into  the  Bibigarh  at  Cawnpore  on  July  12  of  the 
year  1857.  Have  you  heard  of  that  year,  Ahmed 
Ismail,  and  of  the  month  and  of  the  day?  Do  you 
know  what  was  done  that  day  in  the  Bibigarh  at 
Cawnpore?" 

Ahmed  Ismail  watched  the  light  grow  in  Shere  Ali's 
eyes,  and  a  smile  crept  into  his  face,  too. 

"Huzoor,  Huzoor,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper  of  delight. 
He  knew  very  well  what  had  happened  in  Cawnpore, 
though  he  knew  nothing  of  the  month  or  the  day,  and 
cared  little  in  what  year  it  had  happened. 

"There  were  206  women  and  children,  English 
women,  English  children,  shut  up  in  the  Bibigarh. 
At  five  o'clock — and  it  is  well  to  remember  the  hour, 
Ahmed  Ismail — at  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  five 
men  of  the  Nana's  bodyguard  went  into  the  Bibigarh 
and  the  doors  were  closed  upon  them.  It  was  dark 
when  they  came  out  again  and  shut  the  doors  behind 
them,  saying  that  all  were  dead.  But  it  was  not  true. 
There  was  an  Englishwoman  alive  in  the  Bibigarh, 
and  Sirdar  Khan  came  back  in  the  night  and  took  her 
away." 

254 


THE  CASTING  OF  THE   DIE 

'And  she  is  in  Mecca  now?''  cried  Ahmed  Ismail. 

"Yes.  An  old,  old  woman/'  said  Shere  Ali,  dwelling 
upon  the  words  with  a  quiet,  cruel  pleasure.  He  had 
the  picture  clear  before  his  eyes,  he  saw  it  in  the  flame 
of  the  lamp  at  which  he  gazed  so  steadily — an  old, 
wizened,  shrunken  woman,  living  in  a  bare  room,  friend- 
less and  solitary,  so  old  that  she  had  even  ceased  to  be 
aware  of  her  unhappiness,  and  so  coarsened  out  of  all 
likeness  to  the  young,  bright  English  girl  who  had  once 
dwelt  in  Cawnpore,  that  even  her  own  countryman  had 
hardly  believed  she  was  of  his  race.  He  set  another 
picture  side  by  side  with  that — the  picture  of  Violet 
Oliver  as  she  turned  to  him  on  the  steps  and  said,  "This 
is  really  good-bye."  And  in  his  imagination,  he  saw 
the  one  picture  merge  and  coarsen  into  the  other,  the 
dainty  trappings  of  lace  and  ribbons  change  to  a  shape- 
less cloak,  the  young  face  wither  from  its  beauty  into  a 
wrinkled  and  yellow  mask.  It  would  be  a  just  punish- 
ment, he  said  to  himself.  Anger  against  her  was  as  a 
lust  at  his  heart.  He  had  lost  sight  of  her  kindness, 
and  her  pity;  he  desired  her  and  hated  her  in  the  same 
breath. 

"Are  you  married,  Ahmed  Ismail?"  he  asked. 

Ahmed  Ismail  smiled. 

"Truly,  Huzoor." 

"Do  you  carry  your  troubles  to  your  wife?  Is  she 
your  companion  as  well  as  your  wife  ?  Your  friend  as 
well  as  your  mistress?" 

255 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Ahmed  Ismail  laughed. 

"Yet  that  Is  what  the  Englishwomen  are,"  said 
Shere  All. 

"Perhaps,  Huzoor,"  replied  Ahmed,  cunningly,  "it 
is  for  that  reason  that  there  are  some  who  take  and  do 
not  give." 

He  came  a  little  nearer  to  his  Prince. 

"Where  is  she,  Huzoor?" 

Shere  All  was  startled  by  the  question  out  of  his 
dreams.  For  it  had  been  a  dream,  this  thought  of 
capturing  Violet  Oliver  and  plucking  her  out  of  her 
life  into  his.  He  had  played  with  It,  knowing  it  to  be 
a  fancy.  There  had  been  no  settled  plan,  no  settled 
intention  in  his  mind.  But  to-night  he  was  carried 
away.  It  appeared  to  him  there  was  a  possibility  his 
dream  might  come  true.  It  seemed  so  not  alone  to  him 
but  to  Ahmed  Ismail  too.  He  turned  and  gazed  at  the 
man,  wondering  whether  Ahmed  Ismail  played  with 
him  or  not.  But  Ahmed  bore  the  scrutiny  without  a 
shadow  of  embarrassment. 

"Is  she  In  India,  Huzoor?" 

Shere  AH  hesitated.  Some  memory  of  the  lessons 
learned  in  England  was  still  alive  within  him,  bidding 
him  guard  his  secret.  But  the  memory  was  no  longer 
strong  enough.     He  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"In  Calcutta?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  Highness  shall  point  her  out  to  me  one  even- 

256 


THE  CASTING  OF  THE   DIE 

ing  as  she  drives  in  the  Maidan,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail, 
and  again  Shere  Ali  answered — 

"Yes." 

But  he  caught  himself  back  the  next  moment.  He 
flung  away  from  Ahmed  Ismail  with  a  harsh  outburst 
of  laughter. 

"But  this  is  all  folly/'  he  cried.  "We  are  not  in  the 
days  of  the  uprising,"  for  thus  he  termed  now  what  a 
month  ago  he  would  have  called  "The  Mutiny." 
"Cawnpore  is  not  Calcutta,"  and  he  turned  in  a  gust 
of  fury  upon  Ahmed  Ismail.  "Do  you  play  with  me, 
Ahmed  Ismail?" 

"Upon  my  head,  no!  Light  of  my  life,  hope  of  my 
race,  who  would  dare?"  and  he  was  on  the  ground  at 
Shere  All's  feet.  "Do  I  indeed  speak  follies?  I  pray 
your  Highness  to  bethink  you  that  the  summer  sets  its 
foot  upon  the  plains.  She  will  go  to  the  hills,  Huzoor. 
She  will  go  to  the  hills.  And  your  people  are  not  fools. 
They  have  cunning  to  direct  their  strength.  See,  your 
Highness,  is  there  a  regiment  in  Peshawur  whose  rifles 
are  safe,  guard  them  howsoever  carefully  they  will? 
Every  week  they  are  brought  over  the  hills  into  Chil- 
tistan  that  we  may  be  ready  for  the  Great  Day,"  and 
Ahmed  Ismail  chuckled  to  himself.  "A  month  ago, 
Huzoor,  so  many  rifles  had  been  stolen  that  a  regiment  in 
camp  locked  their  rifles  to  their  tent  poles,  and  so 
thought  to  sleep  in  peace.  But  on  the  first  night  the 
cords  of  the  tents  were  cut,  and  while  the  men  waked 

257 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

and  struggled  under  the  folds  of  canvas,  the  tent  poles 
with  the  rifles  chained  to  them  were  carried  away. 
All  those  rifles  are  now  in  Kohara.  Surely,  Huzoor, 
if  they  can  steal  the  rifles  from  the  middle  of  a  camp, 
they  can  steal  a  weak  girl  among  the  hills." 

Ahmed  Ismail  waited  in  suspense,  with  his  forehead 
bowed  to  the  ground,  and  when  the  answer  came  he 
smiled.  He  had  made  good  use  of  this  unexpected  in- 
ducement which  had  been  given  to  him.  He  knew  very 
well  that  nothing  but  an  unlikely  chance  would  enable 
him  to  fulfil  his  promise.  But  that  did  not  matter. 
The  young  Prince  would  point  out  the  Englishwoman 
in  the  Maidan  and,  at  a  later  time  when  all  was  ready 
in  Chiltistan,  a  fine  and  obvious  attempt  should  be 
made  to  carry  her  off.  The  pretence  might,  if  occasion 
served,  become  a  reality,  to  be  sure,  but  the  attempt 
must  be  as  public  as  possible.  There  must  be  no  doubt 
as  to  its  author.  Shere  Ali,  in  a  word,  must  be  com- 
mitted beyond  any  possibility  of  withdrawal.  Ahmed 
Ismail  himself  would  see  to  that. 

"  Very  well.  I  will  point  her  out  to  you,"  said  Shere 
Ali,  and  Ahmed  Ismail  rose  to  his  feet.  He  waited 
before  his  master,  silent  and  respectful.  Shere  Ali 
had  no  suspicion  that  he  was  being  jockeyed  by  that 
respectful  man  into  a  hopeless  rebellion.  He  had, 
indeed,  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  rebellion  must 
be  hopeless. 

"When,"  he  asked,  "will  Chiltistan  be  ready?" 

25S 


THE   CASTING  OF  THE   DIE 

"  As  soon  as  the  harvest  is  got  in,"  repKed  Alimed  Ismail. 
Shere  Ali  nodded  his  head. 

"You  and  I  will  go  northwards  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
"To  Kohara?"  asked  Ahmed  Ismail. 
"Yes." 

For  a  little  while  Ahmed  Ismail  was  silent.  Then 
he  said:  "If  your  Highness  will  allow  his  servant  to 

offer  a  contemptible  word  of  advice " 

"Speak,"  said  Shere  Ali. 

"Then  it  might  be  wise,  perhaps,  to  go  slowly  to 
Kohara.  Your  Highness  has  enemies  in  Chiltistan. 
The  news  of  the  melons  and  the  bags  of  grain  is  spread 
abroad,  and  jealousy  is  aroused.  For  there  are  some 
who  wish  to  lead  when  they  should  serve." 

"The  son  of  Abdulla  Mohammed,"  said  Shere  Ali. 

Ahmed  Ismail  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though  the 

son  of   Abdulla    Mohammed   were   of   Uttle   account. 

There  was  clearly  another  in  his  mind,  and  Shere  Ali 

was  quick  to  understand  him. 

"My  father,"  he  said  quietly.  He  remembered 
how  his  father  had  received  him  with  his  Snider  rifle 
cocked  and  laid  across  his  knees.  This  time  the  Snider 
would  be  fired  if  ever  Shere  Ali  came  within  range  of  its 
bullet.  But  it  was  unlikely  that  he  would  get  so  far,  un- 
less he  went  quickly  and  secretly  at  an  appointed  time. 
"I  had  a  poor  foolish  thought,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail, 
"not  worthy  a  moment's  consideration  by  my  Prince." 
Shere  Ali  })roke  in  impatiendy  upon  his  words. 

259 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Speak  it." 

"If  we  travelled  slowly  to  Ajmere,  we  should  come 
to  that  town  at  the  time  of  pilgrimage.  There  in  secret 
the  final  arrangements  can  be  made,  so  that  the  blow 
may  fall  upon  an  uncovered  head." 

"The  advice  is  good,"  said  Shere  Ali.  But  he  spoke 
reluctantly.  He  wanted  not  to  wait  at  all.  He  wanted 
to  strike  now  while  his  anger  was  at  its  hottest.  But 
undoubtedly  the  advice  was  good. 

Ahmed  Ismail,  carrying  the  light  in  his  hand,  went 
down  the  stairs  before  Shere  Ali  and  along  the  passage 
to  the  door.  There  he  extinguished  the  lamp  and  cau- 
tiously drew  back  the  bolts.  He  looked  out  and  saw 
that  the  street  was  empty. 

"There  is  no  one,"  he  said,  and  Shere  Ali  passed 
out  to  the  mouth  of  the  blind  alley  and  turned  to  the 
left  towards  the  Maidan.  He  walked  thoughtfully  and 
did  not  notice  a  head  rise  cautiously  above  the  side  of  a 
cart  in  the  mouth  of  the  alley.  It  was  the  head  of  the 
reporter  of  Bande  Mataram,  whose  copy  would  be  as- 
suredly too  late  for  the  press. 

Shere  Ali  walked  on  through  the  streets.  It  was  late, 
and  he  met  no  one.  There  had  come  upon  him  dur- 
ing the  last  hours  a  great  yearning  for  his  own  country. 
He  ran  over  in  his  mind,  with  a  sense  of  anger  against 
himself,  the  miserable  wasted  weeks  in  Calcutta — the 
nights  in  the  glaring  bars  and  halls,  the  friends  he  had 
made,  the  depths  in  which  he  had  wallowed.     He  came 

260 


THE  CASTING  OF  THE  DIE 

to  the  Maidan,  and,  standing  upon  that  empty  plain, 
gazed  round  on  the  great  silent  city.  He  hated  it,  with 
its  statues  of  Viceroys  and  soldiers,  its  houses  of  rich 
merchants,  its  insolence.  He  would  lead  his  own 
people  against  all  that  it  symbolised.  Perhaps,  some 
day,  when  all  the  frontier  was  in  flame,  and  the  British 
power  rolled  back,  he  and  his  people  might  pour  down 
from  the  hills  and  knock  even  against  the  gates  of  Cal- 
cutta. Men  from  the  hills  had  come  down  to  Tonk, 
and  Bhopal,  and  Rohilcund,  and  Rampur,  and  founded 
kingdoms  for  themselves.  Why  should  he  and  his  not 
push  on  to  Calcutta? 

He  bared  his  head  to  the  night  wind.  He  was  up- 
lifted, and  fired  with  mad,  impossible  dreams.  All  that 
he  had  learned  was  of  little  account  to  him  now.  It 
might  be  that  the  English,  as  Colonel  Dewes  had  said, 
had  something  of  an  army.  Let  them  come  to  Chil- 
tistan  and  prove  their  boast. 

''I  will  go  north  to  the  hills,"  he  cried,  and  with  a 
shock  he  understood  that,  after  all,  he  had  recovered 
his  own  place.  The  longing  at  his  heart  was  for  his 
own  country — for  his  own  people.  It  might  have  been 
bred  of  disappointment  and  despair.  Envy  of  the  white 
people  might  have  cradled  it,  desire  for  the  white  woman 
might  have  nursed  it  into  strength.  But  it  was  alive 
now.  That  was  all  of  which  Shere  AH  was  conscious. 
The  knowledge  filled  all  his  thoughts.  He  had  his  place 
in  the  world.     Greatly  he  rejoiced. 

261 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


SHERE   ALI'S   PILGRIMAGE 


There  were  times  when  Ralston  held  aloft  his  hands 
and  cursed  the  Indian  administration  by  all  his  gods. 
But  he  never  did  so  with  a  more  whole-hearted  con- 
viction than  on  the  day  when  he  received  word  that 
Linforth  had  been  diverted  to  Rawal  Pindi,  in  order 
that  he  might  take  up  purely  military  duties.  It  took 
Ralston  just  seven  months  to  secure  his  release,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  early  days  of  autumn  had  arrived  that 
Linforth  at  last  reached  Peshawur.  A  landau,  v/ith  a 
coachman  and  groom  in  scarlet  liveries,  was  waiting 
for  him  at  the  station,  and  he  drove  along  the  broad 
road  through  the  cantonment  to  Government  House. 
As  the  carriage  swung  in  at  the  gates,  a  tall,  thin  man 
came  from  the  croquet-ground  on  the  left.  He  joined 
Dick  in  the  porch. 

"You  are  Mr.  Linforth?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

For  a  moment  a  pair  of  grey,  tired  eyes  ran  Dick 
over  from  head  to  foot  in  a  careless  scrutiny.  Appar- 
ently, however,  the  scrutiny  was  favourable. 

"  I  am  the  Chief  Commissioner.  I  am  glad  that  you 
have  come.     My  sister  will  give  you  some  tea,  and 

262 


SHERE  ALrS  PILGRIMAGE 

afterwards,  if  you  are  not  tired,  we  might  go  for  a  ride 
together.     You  would  Hke  to  see  your  room  first." 

Ralston  spoke  with  his  usual  indifference.  There 
was  no  intonation  in  his  voice  which  gave  to  any  one 
sentence  a  particular  meaning;  and  for  a  particular 
meaning  Dick  Linforth  was  listening  with  keen  ears. 
He  followed  Ralston  across  the  hall  to  his  room,  and 
disappointment  gained  upon  him  with  every  step.  He 
had  grown  familiar  with  disappointment  of  late  years, 
but  he  was  still  young  enough  in  years  and  spirit  to  ex- 
pect the  end  of  disappointment  with  each  change  in  his 
fortunes.  He  had  expected  it  when  the  news  of  his  ap- 
pointment had  reached  him  in  Calcutta,  and  disappoint- 
ment had  awaited  him  in  Bombay.  He  had  expected 
it  again  when,  at  last,  he  w^as  sent  from  Rawal  Pindi 
to  Peshawur.  All  the  w^ay  up  the  line  he  had  been 
watching  the  far  hills  of  Cashmere,  and  repeating  to 
himself,  "At  last!     At  last!" 

The  words  had  been  a  song  at  his  heart,  tuned  to  the 
jolt  and  rhythm  of  the  wheels.  Ralston  of  Peshawur 
had  asked  for  him.  So  much  he  had  been  told.  His 
longing  had  explained  to  him  why  Ralston  of  Peshawur 
had  asked  for  him,  and  easily  he  had  believed  the  ex- 
planation. He  was  a  Linforth,  one  of  the  Linforths 
of  the  Road.  Great  was  his  pride.  He  would  not 
have  bartered  his  position  to  be  a  General  in  command 
of  a  division.  Ralston  had  sent  for  him  because  of 
his  hereditary  title  to  work  upon  the  Road,  the  broad, 

203 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

permanent,  graded  Road  which  was  to  make  India 
safe. 

And  now  he  walked  behind  a  tired  and  indifferent 
Commissioner,  whose  very  voice  officialdom  had  made 
phlegmatic,  and  on  whose  aspect  was  writ  large  the 
habit  of  routine.  In  this  mood  he  sat,  while  Miss 
Ralston  prattled  to  him  about  the  social  doings  of 
Peshawur,  the  hunt,  the  golf;  and  in  this  mood  he  rode 
out  with  Ralston  to  the  Gate  of  the  City. 

They  passed  through  the  main  street,  and,  turning 
to  the  right,  ascended  to  an  archway,  above  which  rose 
a  tower.  At  the  archway  they  dismounted  and  climbed 
to  the  roof  of  the  tower.  Peshawur,  with  its  crowded 
streets,  its  open  bazaars,  its  balconied  houses  of  mud 
bricks  built  into  wooden  frames,  lay  mapped  beneath 
them.  But  Linforth's  eyes  travelled  over  the  trees  and 
the  gardens  northwards  and  eastwards,  to  where  the 
foothills  of  the  Himalayas  were  coloured  with  the  violet 
light  of  evening. 

"Linforth,"  Ralston  cried.  He  was  leaning  on  the 
parapet  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  tower,  and  Dick 
crossed  and  leaned  at  his  side. 

"It  was  I  who  had  you  sent  for,"  said  Ralston 
in  his  dull  voice.  "When  you  were  at  Chatham,  I 
mean.     I  worried  them  in  Calcutta  until  they  sent  for 

you." 

Dick  took  his  elbows  from  the  parapet  and  stood  up. 
His  face  took  life  and  fire,  there  came  a  brightness  as 

264 


SHERE  ALI'S  PILGRIMAGE 

of  joy  into  his  eyes.     After  all,  then,  this  time  he  was 
not  to  be  disappointed. 

"I  wanted  you  to  come  to  Peshawur  straight  from 
Bombay  six  months  ago,"  Ralston  went  on.  "But  I 
counted  without  the  Indian  Government.  They  brought 
you  out  to  India,  at  my  special  request,  for  a  special 
purpose,  and  then,  when  they  had  got  you,  they  turned 
you  over  to  work  which  anyone  else  could  have  done. 
So  six  months  have  been  wasted.     But  that's  their 

little  way." 

"You  have  special  work  for  me?"  said  Linforth 
quietly  enough,  though  his  heart  was  beating  quickly  in 
his  breast.     An  answer  came  which  still  quickened  its 

beatings. 

"Work  that  you  alone  can  do,"  Ralston  replied 
gravely.  But  he  was  a  man  who  had  learned  to  hope 
for  little,  and  to  expect  discouragements  as  his  daily 
bread,  and  he  added: 

"That  is,  if  you  can  do  it." 

Linforth  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  leaning 
with  his  elbows  on  the  parapet,  and  he  raised  a  hand  to 
the  side  of  his  face,  that  side  on  which  Ralston  stood. 
And  so  he  remained,  shutting  himself  in  with  his 
thoughts,  and  trying  to  think  soberly.  But  his  head 
whirled.  Below  him  lay  the  city  of  Peshawur.  Be- 
hind him  the  plains  came  to  an  end,  and  straight  up 
from  them,  like  cliffs  out  of  the  sea,  rose  the  dark  hills, 
brown  and  grey  and  veined  with  white.     Here  on  this 

265 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

tower  of  Northern  India,  the  long  dreams,  dreamed  for 
the  first  time  on  the  Sussex  Downs,  and  nursed  since  in 
every  moment  of  leisure — in  Alpine  huts  in  days  of 
storm,  in  his  own  quarters  at  Chatham — had  come  to 
their  fulfilment. 

"I  have  lived  for  this  work,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice 
which  shook  ever  so  little,  try  as  he  might  to  quiet  it. 
"  Ever  since  I  was  a  boy  I  have  lived  for  it,  and  trained 
myself  for  it.     It  is  the  Road." 

Linforth's  evident  emotion  came  upon  Ralston  as  an 
unexpected  thing.  He  was  carried  back  suddenly  to 
his  own  youth,  and  was  surprised  to  recollect  that  he, 
too,  had  once  cherished  great  plans.  He  saw  himself 
as  he  was  to-day,  and,  side  by  side  with  that  disillu- 
sioned figure,  he  saw  himself  as  he  had  been  in  his 
youth.     A  smile  of  friendliness  came  over  his  face. 

*'If  I  had  shut  my  eyes,"  he  said,  "I  should  have 
thought  it  was  your  father  who  was  speaking." 

Linforth  turned  quickly  to  Ralston. 

"  My  father.     You  knew  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  never  did,"  said  Dick  regretfully. 

Ralston  nodded  his  head  and  continued: 

"Twenty-six  years  ago  we  were  here  in  Peshawur 
together.  We  came  up  on  to  the  top  of  this  tower,  as 
everyone  does  who  comes  to  Peshawur.  He  was  like 
you.  He  was  dreaming  night  and  day  of  the  Great 
Road  through  Chiltistan  to  the  foot  of  the  Hindu  Kush. 

266 


SHERE  ALES  PILGRIMAGE 

Look!"  and  Ralston  pointed  down  to  the  roof-tops  of 
the  city,  whereon  the  women  and  children  worked  and 
played.  For  the  most  part  they  were  enclosed  within 
brick  walls,  and  the  two  men  looked  down  into  them  as 
you  might  look  in  the  rooms  of  a  doll's  house  by  taking 
off  the  lid.  Ralston  pointed  to  one  such  open  chamber 
just  beneath  their  eyes.  An  awning  supported  on 
wooden  pillars  sheltered  one  end  of  it,  and  between  two 
of  these  pillars  a  child  swooped  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  a  swing.  In  the  open,  a  woman,  seated  upon 
a  string  charpoy,  rocked  a  cradle  with  her  foot,  while 
her  hands  were  busy  with  a  needle,  and  an  old  w^oman, 
with  a  black  shawl  upon  her  shoulders  and  head,  sat 
near  by,  inactive.  But  she  was  talking.  For  at  times 
the  younger  woman  would  raise  her  head,  and,  though 
at  that  distance  no  voice  could  be  heard,  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  answering.  "I  remember  noticing  that 
roof  when  your  father  and  I  were  talking  up  here  all 
those  years  ago.  There  was  just  the  same  family 
group  as  you  see  now.  I  remember  it  quite  clearly, 
for  your  father  went  away  to  Chiltistan  the  next  day, 
and  never  came  back.  It  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him, 
and  we  were  both  young  and  full  of  all  the  great  changes 
we  were  to  bring  about."  He  smiled,  half  it  seemed 
in  amusement,  half  in  regret.  "We  talked  of  the  Road, 
of  course.  Well,  there's  just  one  change.  The  old 
woman,  sitting  there  with  the  shawl  upon  her  shoulders 
now,  was  in  those  days  the  young  woman  rocking  the 

2G7 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

cradle  and  working  with  her  needle.  That's  all. 
Troubles  there  have  been,  disturbances,  an  expedition 
or  two — but  there's  no  real  change.  Here  are  you 
talking  of  the  Road  just  as  your  father  did,  not  ambi- 
tious for  yourself,"  he  explained  with  a  kindly  smile 
which  illumined  his  whole  face,  "but  ambitious  for  the 
Road,  and  the  Road  still  stops  at  Kohara." 

"But  it  will  go  on — now,"  cried  Linforth. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Ralston  slowly.  Then  he  stood  up 
and  confronted  Linforth. 

"  It  was  not  that  you  might  carry  on  the  Road  that  I 
brought  you  out  from  England,"  he  said.  "On  the 
contrary." 

Once  more  disappointment  seized  upon  Dick  Lin- 
forth, and  he  found  it  all  the  more  bitter  in  that  he  had 
believed  a  minute  since  that  his  dreams  were  to  be 
fulfilled.  He  looked  down  upon  Peshawur,  and  the 
words  which  Ralston  had  lately  spoken,  half  in  amuse- 
ment, half  with  regret,  suddenly  took  for  him  their  full 
meaning.  Was  it  true  that  there  was  no  change  but  the 
change  from  the  young  woman  to  the  old  one,  from 
enthusiasm  to  acquiescence?  He  was  young,  and  the 
possibility  chilled  him  and  even  inspired  him  with  a 
kind  of  terror.  Was  he  to  carry  the  Road  no  further 
than  his  father  had  done  ?  Would  another  Linforth  in 
another  generation  come  to  the  tower  in  Peshawur  with 
hopes  as  high  as  his  and  with  the  like  futility  ? 

"On  the  contrary?"  he  asked.     "Then  why?" 

268" 


SHEilE  ALI'S  PILGRIMAGE 

"That  you  might  stop  the  Road  from  going  on," 
said  Ralston  quietly. 

In  the  very  midst  of  his  disappointment  Linforth 
realised  that  he  had  misjudged  his  companion.  Here 
was  no  official,  here  was  a  man.  The  attitude  of  in- 
difference had  gone,  the  air  of  lassitude  with  it.  Here 
was  a  man  quietly  exacting  the  hardest  service  which 
it  was  in  his  power  to  exact,  claiming  it  as  a  right,  and 
yet  making  it  clear  by  some  subtle  sympathy  that  he 
understood  very  well  all  that  the  service  would  cost  to 
the  man  who  served. 

"I  am  to  hinder  the  making  of  that  Road?"  cried 
Linforth. 

"You  are  to  do  more.     You  are  to  prevent  it." 

"I  have  lived  so  that  it  should  be  made." 

"So  you  have  told  me,"  said  Ralston  quietly,  and 
Dick  was  silent.  With  each  quiet  sentence  Ralston 
had  become  more  and  more  the  dominating  figure.  He 
was  so  certain,  so  assured.  Linforth  recognised  him 
no  longer  as  the  man  to  argue  with;  but  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  Government  which  overrides  predilections, 
sympathies,  ambitions,  and  bends  its  servants  to  their 
duty. 

"I  will  tell  you  more,"  Ralston  continued.  "You 
alone  can  prevent  the  extension  of  the  Road.  I  be- 
lieve it — I  know  it.  I  sent  to  England  for  you,  know- 
ing it.  Do  your  duty,  and  it  may  be  that  the  Road 
will    stop    at    Kohara — an    unfinished,    broken    thing. 

269 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Flinch,  and  the  Road  runs  straight  to  the  Hindu 
Kush.  You  will  have  your  desire;  but  you  will  have 
failed." 

There  was  something  implacable  and  relentless  in 
the  tone  and  the  words.  There  was  more,  too.  There 
was  an  intimation,  subtly  yet  most  clearly  conveyed, 
that  Ralston  who  spoke  had  in  his  day  trampled  his 
ambitions  and  desires  beneath  his  feet  in  service  to  the 
Government,  and  asked  no  more  now  from  Linforth 
than  he  himself  had  in  his  turn  performed.  "I,  too, 
have  lived  in  Arcady,"  he  added.  It  was  this  last 
intimation  which  subdued  the  protests  in  Linforth's 
mind.  He  looked  at  the  worn  face  of  the  Commis- 
sioner, then  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  swept  the  horizon 
with  his  gaze.  The  violet  light  upon  the  hills  had  lost 
its  brightness  and  its  glamour.  In  the  far  distance  the 
hills  themselves  were  withdrawn.  Somewhere  in  that 
great  barrier  to  the  east  was  the  gap  of  the  Malakand 
Pass,  where  the  Road  now  began.  Linforth  turned 
away  from  the  hills  towards  Peshawur. 

"What  must  I  do?"  he  asked  simply. 

Ralston  nodded  his  head.  His  attitude  relaxed,  his 
voice  lost  its  dominating  note. 

"\Miat  you  have  to  understand  is  this,"  he  explained. 
"To  drive  the  Road  through  Chiltistan  means  war.  It 
would  be  the  cause  of  war  if  we  insisted  upon  it  now, 
just  as  it  was  the  cause  of  war  when  your  father  went 
up  from  Peshawur  twenty-six  years  ago.     Or  it  might 

270 


SHERE  ALI'S  PILGRIMAGE 

be  the  consequence  of  war.  If  the  Chiltis  rose  in  arms, 
undoubtedly  we  should  carry  it  on  to  secure  control  of 
the  country  in  the  future.  Well,  it  is  the  last  alterna- 
tive that  we  are  face  to  face  with  now." 

"The  Chiltis  might  rise!"  cried  Linforth. 

"There  is  that  possibility,"  Ralston  returned.  "We 
don't  mean  on  our  own  account  to  carry  on  the  Road; 
but  the  Chiltis  might  rise." 

"And  how  should  I  prevent  them?"  asked  Dick 
Linforth  in  perplexity. 

"You  know  Shere  Ali?"  said  Ralston 

"Yes." 

"You  are  a  friend  of  his?" 

"Yes." 

"A  great  friend.     His  chief  friend?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  some  control  over  him?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Linforth. 

"Very  well,"  said  Ralston.  "You  must  use  that 
control." 

Linforth's  perplexity  increased.  That  danger  should 
come  from  Shere  Ali — here  was  something  quite  in- 
credible. He  remembered  their  long  talks,  their  joint 
ambition.  A  day  passed  in  the  hut  in  the  Promontoire 
of  the  Meije  stood  out  vividly  in  his  memories.  He 
saw  the  snow  rising  in  a  swirl  of  white  over  the  Breche 
de  la  Meije,  that  gap  in  the  rock-wall  between  the 
Meije  and  the  Rateau,  and  driving  down  the  glacier 

271 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

towards  the  hut.  He  remembered  the  eagerness,  the 
enthusiasm  of  Shere  AH. 

"But  he's  loyal,"  Linforth  cried.  "There  is  no  one 
in  India  more  loyal." 

"He  was  loyal,  no  doubt,"  said  Ralston,  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and,  beginning  with  his  first 
meeting  with  Shere  Ali  in  Lahore,  he  told  Linforth  all 
that  he  knew  of  the  history  of  the  young  Prince. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "of  his  dis- 
loyalty," and  he  recounted  the  story  of  the  melons  and 
the  bags  of  grain.  "  Since  then  he  has  been  intriguing 
in  Calcutta." 

"Is  he  in  Calcutta  now?"  Linforth  asked. 

"No,"  said  Ralston.  "He  left  Calcutta  just  about 
the  time  when  you  landed  in  Bombay.  And  there  is 
something  rather  strange — something,  I  think,  very 
disquieting  in  his  movements  since  he  left  Calcutta.  I 
have  had  him  watched,  of  course.  He  came  north 
with  one  of  his  own  countrymen,  and  the  pair  of 
them  have  been  seen  at  CawTipore,  at  Lucknow,  at 
Delhi." 

Ralston  paused.  His  face  had  grown  very  grave, 
very  troubled. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  is  diflScult, 
however  long  you  stay  in  India,  to  get  behind  these 
fellows'  minds,  to  understand  the  thoughts  and  the 
motives  which  move  them.  And  the  longer  you  stay, 
the  more  difficult  you  realise  it  to  be.     But  it  looks  to 

272 


SHERE  ALI'S  PILGRIMAGE  ! 


me  as  if  Shere  Ali  had  been  taken  by  his  companion 
on  a  sort  of  pilgrimage." 

Linforth  started. 

"A  pilgrimage!"  and  he  added  slowly,  "I  think  I 
understand.  A  pilgrimage  to  all  the  places  which 
could  most  inflame  the  passions  of  a  native  against  the 
English  race/'  and  then  he  broke  out  in  protest.  "  But 
it's  impossible.  I  know  Shere  Ali.  It's  not  reason- 
able  " 

Ralston  interrupted  him  upon  the  utterance  of  the 
word. 

"Reasonable!'*  he  cried.  "You  are  in  India.  Do 
ever  white  men  act  reasonably  in  India  ?"  and  he  turned 
with  a  smile.  "There  was  a  great-uncle  of  yours  in 
the  days  of  the  John  Company,  wasn't  there?  Your 
father  told  me  about  him  here  on  this  tower.  When 
his  time  was  up,  he  sent  his  money  home  and  took  his 
passage,  and  then  came  back — came  back  to  the 
mountains  and  disappeared.  Very  likely  he  may  be 
sitting  somewhere  beyond  that  barrier  of  hills  by  a 
little  shrine  to  this  hour,  an  old,  old  man,  reverenced 
as  a  saint,  with  a  strip  of  cloth  about  his  loins,  and 
forgetful  of  the  days  when  he  ruled  a  district  in  the 
Plains.  I  should  not  wonder.  It's  not  a  reasonable 
country." 

Ralston,  indeed,  was  not  far  out  in  his  judgment. 
Ahmed  Ismail  had  carried  Shere  Ali  off  from  Calcutta. 
He  had  taken  him  first  of  all  to  Cawnpore,  and  had 

273 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

led  him  up  to  the  gate  of  the  enclosure,  wherein  are  the 
Bibigarh,  where  the  women  and  children  were  mas- 
sacred, and  the  well  into  w^hich  their  bodies  were  flung. 
An  English  soldier  turned  them  back  from  that  en- 
closure, refusing  them  admittance.  Ahmed  Ismail, 
knowing  well  that  it  would  be  so,  smiled  quietly  under 
his  moustache;  but  Shere  Ali  angrily  pointed  to  some 
English  tourists  who  were  within  the  enclosure. 

"Why  should  we  remain  outside?"  he  asked. 

"They  are  Bilati,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail  in  a  smooth 
voice  as  they  moved  away.  "They  are  foreigners. 
The  place  is  sacred  to  the  foreigners.  It  is  Indian  soil; 
but  the  Indian  may  not  walk  on  it;  no,  not  though  he 
were  born  next  door.  Yet  whv  should  we  tumble  or 
complain?  We  are  the  dirt  beneath  their  feet.  We 
are  dogs  and  sons  of  dogs,  and  a  hireling  will  turn  our 
Princes  from  the  gate  lest  the  soles  of  our  shoes  should 
defile  their  sacred  places.  And  are  they  not  right, 
Huzoor?"  he  asked  cunningly.  "Since  we  submit  to 
it,  since  we  cringe  at  their  indignities  and  fawn  upon 
them  for  their  insults,  are  they  not  right?" 

"Why,  that's  true,  Ahmed  Ismail,"  replied  Shere  Ali 
bitterly.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  make  much  of  any 
trifle.  This  reservation  of  the  enclosure  at  Cawnpore 
was  but  one  sign  of  the  overbearing  arrogance  of  the 
foreigners,  the  Bilati — the  men  from  over  the  sea.  He 
had  fawned  upon  them  himself  in  the  days  of  his 
folly. 

274 


SHERE   ALFS  PILGRIMAGE 

"But  turn  a  little,  Hiizoor/'  Ahmed  whispered  in  his 
ear,  and  led  him  back.  '* Look!  There  is  the  Bibigarh 
where  the  women  were  imprisoned.  That  is  the  house. 
Through  that  opening  Sirdar  Khan  and  his  four  com- 
panions went — and  shut  the  door  behind  them.  Li 
that  room  the  women  of  Mecca  knelt  and  prayed  for 
mercy.  Come  away,  Huzoor.  We  have  seen.  Those 
were  days  when  there  were  men  upon  the  plains  of 
India." 

And  Shere  Ali  broke  out  with  a  fierce  oath. 

"Amongst  the  hills,  at  all  events,  there  are  men  to- 
day. There  is  no  sacred  ground  for  them  in  Chil- 
tistan." 

"Not  even  the  Road?"  asked  Ahmed  Ismail;  and 
Shere  Ali  stopped  dead,  and  stared  at  his  companion 
with  startled  eyes.  He  walked  away  in  silence  after 
that ;  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day  he  said  little  to  Ahmed 
Ismail,  who  watched  him  anxiously.  At  night,  how- 
ever, Ahmed  was  justified  of  his  policy.  For  Shere 
Ali  appeared  before  him  in  the  white  robes  of  a  Moham- 
medan. Up  till  then  he  had  retained  the  English  dress. 
Now  he  had  discarded  it.  Ahmed  Ismail  fell  at  his 
feet,  and  bowed  himself  to  the  ground. 

"My  Lord!  My  Lord!"  he  cried,  and  there  was  no 
simulation  in  his  outburst  of  joy.  "Would  that  your 
people  could  behold  you  now!  But  we  have  much  to 
see  first.     To-morrow  we  go  to  Lucknow." 

Accordingly  the  two  men  travelled  the  next  day  to 

275 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Lucknow.  Shere  Ali  was  led  up  under  the  broken 
archway  by  Evans's  Battery  into  the  grounds  of  the 
Residency.  He  walked  with  Ahmed  Ismail  at  his 
elbow  on  the  green  lawns  where  the  golden-crested 
hoopoes  flashed  in  the  sunlight  and  the  ruined  buildings 
stood  agape  to  the  air.  They  looked  peaceful  enough, 
as  they  strolled  from  one  battery  to  another,  but  all  the 
while  Ahmed  Ismail  preached  his  sermon  into  Shere 
All's  ears.  There  Lawrence  had  died;  here  at  the  top 
of  the  narrow  lane  had  stood  Johannes's  house  whence 
Nebo  the  Nailer  had  watched  day  after  day  with  his 
rifle  in  his  hand.  Hardly  a  man,  be  he  never  so  swift, 
could  cross  that  little  lane  from  one  quarter  of  the 
Residency  to  another,  so  long  as  daylight  lasted  and  so 
long  as  Nebo  the  Nailer  stood  behind  the  shutters  of 
Johannes's  house.  Shere  Ali  was  fired  by  the  story  of 
that  siege.  By  so  little  was  the  garrison  saved.  Ahmed 
Ismail  led  him  down  to  a  corner  of  the  grounds  and 
once  more  a  sentry  barred  the  way. 

"This  is  the  graveyard,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail,  and 
Shere  Ali,  looking  up,  stepped  back  with  a  look  upon 
his  face  which  Ahmed  Ismail  did  not  understand. 

"Huzoor!"  he  said  anxiously,  and  Shere  Ali  turned 
upon  him  with  an  imperious  word. 

"Silence,  dog!"  he  cried.  "Stand  apart.  I  wish  to 
be  alone." 

His  eyes  were  on  the  little  church  with  the  trees  and 
the  wall  girding  it  in.     At  the  side  a  green  meadow 

276 


SHERE  ALFS  PILGRIMAGE 

with  high  trees,  had  the  look  of  a  playing-ground — the 
playing-ground  of  some  great  pubHc  school  in  England. 
Shere  Ali's  eyes  took  in  the  whole  picture,  and  then 
saw  it  but  dimly  through  a  mist.  For  the  little  church, 
though  he  had  never  seen  it  before,  was  familiar  and 
most  moving.  It  was  a  model  of  the  Royal  Chapel  at 
Eton,  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  as  he  gazed  the  tears 
filled  his  eyes  and  the  memory  of  his  schooldays  ached 
at  his  heart.  He  yearned  to  be  back  once  more  in  the 
shadow  of  that  chapel  with  his  comrades  and  his 
friends.  Not  yet  had  he  wholly  forgotten;  he  was 
softened  out  of  his  bitterness ;  the  burden  of  his  jealousy 
and  his  anger  fell  for  awhile  from  his  shoulders.  When 
he  rejoined  Ahmed  Ismail,  he  bade  him  follow  and 
speak  no  word.  He  drove  back  to  the  town,  and  then 
only  he  spoke  to  Ahmed  Ismail. 

"We  will  go  from  Lucknow  to-day,"  he  said.  "I 
will  not  sleep  in  this  town." 

"As  your  Highness  wills,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail  hum- 
bly, and  he  went  into  the  station  and  bought  tickets 
for  Delhi.  It  was  on  a  Thursday  morning  that  the 
pair  reached  that  town;  and  that  day  Ahmed  Ismail 
had  an  unreceptive  listener  for  his  sermons.  The 
monument  before  the  Post  Office,  the  tablets  on  the 
arch  of  the  arsenal,  even  the  barracks  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Moghul  Palace  fired  no  antagonism  in  the  Prince, 
who  so  short  a  time  ago  had  been  a  boy  at  Eton.  The 
memories  evoked  by  the  little  church  at  Lucknow  had 

277 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

borne  him  company  all  night  and  still  clung  to  him 
that  day.  He  was  homesick  for  his  school.  Only 
twice  was  he  really  roused. 

The  first  instance  took  place  when  he  was  driving 
along  the  Chandni  Chauk,  the  straight  broad  tree- 
fringed  street  which  runs  from  the  Lahore  Gate  to  the 
Fort.  Ahmed  Ismail  sat  opposite  to  him,  and,  leaning 
forward,  he  pointed  to  a  tree  and  to  a  tall  house  in 
front  of  the  tree. 

"My  Lord,"  said  he,  "could  that  tree  speak,  what 
groans  would  one  hear!" 

"Why?"  said  Shere  AU  listlessly. 

"Listen,  your  Highness,"  said  Ahmed  Ismail.  Like 
the  rest  of  his  countrymen,  he  had  a  keen  love  for  a 
story.  And  the  love  was  the  keener  when  he  himself 
had  the  telling  of  it.  He  sat  up  alertly.  "In  that 
house  lived  an  Englishman  of  high  authority.  He  es- 
caped when  Delhi  was  seized  by  the  faithful.  He  came 
back  when  Delhi  was  recaptured  by  the  infidels.  And 
there  he  sat  with  an  English  officer,  at  his  window, 
every  morning  from  eight  to  nine.  And  every  morning 
from  eight  to  nine  every  native  who  passed  his  door  was 
stopped  and  hanged  upon  that  tree,  while  he  looked 
on.  Huzoor,  there  was  no  inquiry.  It  might  be  some 
peaceable  merchant,  some  poor  man  from  the  country- 
side. What  did  it  matter  ?  There  was  a  lesson  to  be 
taught  to  this  city.  And  so  whoever  walked  down  the 
Chandni  Chauk  during  that  hour  dangled  from  those 

278 


SHERE   ALPS  PILGRIMAGE 

branches.  Huzoor,  for  a  week  this  went  on — for  a 
whole  week." 

The  story  was  current  in  Delhi.  Ahmed  Ismail 
found  it  to  his  hand,  and  Shere  Ali  did  not  question  it. 
He  sat  up  erect,  and  something  of  the  fire  which  this 
last  day  had  been  extinct  kindled  again  in  his  sombre 
eyes.  Later  on  he  drove  along  the  sinuous  road  on 
the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  as  he  looked  over  Delhi,  hidden 
amongst  its  foliage,  he  saw  the  great  white  dome  of  the 
Jumma  Musjid  rising  above  the  tree-tops,  like  a 
balloon.  "The  Mosque,"  he  said,  standing  up  in  his 
carriage.     "To-morrow  we  will  worship  there." 

Before  noon  the  next  day  he  mounted  the  steep  broad 
flight  of  steps  and  passed  under  the  red  sandstone  arch 
into  the  vast  enclosure.  He  performed  his  ablutions 
at  the  fountain,  and,  kneeling  upon  the  marble  tiles, 
waited  for  the  priest  to  ascend  the  ladder  on  to  the 
wooden  platform.  He  knelt  with  Ahmed  Ismail  at  his 
side,  in  the  open,  amongst  the  lowliest.  In  front  of  him 
rows  of  worshippers  knelt  and  bowed  their  foreheads 
to  the  tiles — rows  and  rows  covering  the  enclosure  up 
to  the  arches  of  the  mosque  itself.  There  were  others 
too — rows  and  rows  within  the  arches,  in  the  dusk  of 
the  mosque  itself,  and  from  man  to  man  emotion  passed 
like  a  spark  upon  the  wind.  The  crowd  grew  denser, 
there  came  a  suspense,  a  tension.  It  gained  upon  all,  it 
laid  its  clutch  upon  Shere  Ali.  He  ceased  to  think,  even 
upon   his  injuries,  he  was  possessed  with  expectancy. 

279 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

And  then  a  man  kneeling  beside  him  interrupted  his 
prayers  and  began  to  curse  fiercely  beneath  his  breath. 

"May  they  burn,  they  and  their  fathers  and  their 
children,  to  the  last  generation!"  And  he  added  epi- 
thets of  a  surprising  ingenuity.  The  while  he  looked 
backwards  over  his  shoulder. 

Shere  Ali  followed  his  example.  He  saw  at  the  back 
of  the  enclosure,  in  the  galleries  which  surmounted  the 
archway  and  the  wall,  English  men  and  English  women 
waiting.  Shere  All's  blood  boiled  at  the  sight.  They 
were  laughing,  talking.  Some  of  them  had  brought 
sandwiches  and  were  eating  their  lunch.  Others  were 
taking  photographs  with  their  cameras.  They  were 
waiting  for  the  show  to  begin. 

Shere  Ali  followed  the  example  of  his  neighbour  and 
cursed  them.  All  his  anger  kindled  again  and  quick- 
ened into  hatred.  They  were  so  careful  of  themselves, 
so  careless  of  others! 

"Not  a  Mohammedan,"  he  cried  to  himself,  "must 
set  foot  in  their  graveyard  at  Lucknow,  but  they  come 
to  our  mosque  as  to  a  show." 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  priest  climb  the  ladder  on  to 
the  high  wooden  platform  in  front  of  the  central  arch 
of  the  mosque  and  bow  his  forehead  to  the  floor.  His 
voice  rang  out  resonant  and  clear  and  confident  over 
that  vast  assemblage. 

"There  is  only  one  God." 

And  a  shiver  passed  across  the  rows  of  kneeling  men, 

280 


SHERE  ALrS  PILGRIMAGE 

as  though  unexpectedly  a  wind  had  blown  across  a  ripe 
field  of  corn.  Shere  Ali  was  moved  like  the  rest,  but 
all  the  while  at  the  back  of  his  mind  there  was  the 
thought  of  those  white  people  in  the  galleries. 

"  They  are  laughing  at  us,  they  are  making  a  mock  of  us, 
they  think  we  are  of  no  account."  And  fiercely  he  called 
upon  his  God,  the  God  of  the  Mohammedans,  to  root  them 
out  from  the  land  and  cast  them  as  weeds  in  the  flame. 

The  priest  stood  up  erect  upon  the  platform,  and 
with  a  vibrating  voice,  now  plaintive  and  conveying 
some  strange  sense  of  loneliness,  now  loud  in  praise, 
now  humble  in  submission,  he  intoned  the  prayers. 
His  voice  rose  and  sank,  reverberating  back  over  the 
crowded  courtyard  from  the  walls  of  the  mosque.  Shere 
Ali  prayed  too,  but  he  prayed  silently,  with  all  the 
fervour  of  a  fanatic,  that  it  might  be  his  hand  which 
should  drive  the  English  to  their  ships  upon  the  sea. 

When  he  rose  and  came  out  from  the  mosque  he 
turned  to  Ahmed  Ismail. 

"There  are  some  of  my  people  in  Delhi?" 

Ahmed  Ismail  bowed. 

"Let  us  go  to  them,"  said  Shere  Ali;  he  sought 
refuge  amongst  them  from  the  thought  of  those  people 
in  the  galleries.  Ahmed  Ismail  was  well  content  with 
the  results  of  his  pilgrimage.  Shere  Ali,  as  he  paced 
the  streets  of  Delhi  with  a  fierce  rapt  look  in  his  eyes, 
had  the  very  aspect  of  a  Ghazi  fresh  from  the  hills  and 
bent  upon  murder  and  immolation. 

281 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


NEWS   FROM   AJMERE 


Something  of  this  pilgrimage  Ralston  understood; 
and  what  he  understood  he  explained  to  Dick  Linforth 
on  the  top  of  the  tower  at  Peshawur.  Linforth,  how- 
ever, was  still  perplexed,  still  unconvinced. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  cried;  "I  know  Shere  Ali  so 
well." 

Ralston  shook  his  head. 

"England  overlaid  the  real  man  with  a  pretty  var- 
nish," he  said.  "That's  all  it  ever  does.  And  the 
varnish  peels  off  easily  when  the  man  comes  back  to 
an  Indian  sun.  There's  not  one  of  these  people  from 
the  hills  but  has  in  him  the  makings  of  a  fanatic.  It's 
a  question  of  circumstances  whether  the  fanaticism 
comes  to  the  top  or  not.  Given  the  circumstances, 
neither  Eton,  nor  Oxford,  nor  all  the  schools  and  uni- 
versities rolled  into  one  would  hinder  the  relapse." 

"But  why?"  exclaimed  Linforth.  "Why  should 
Shere  Ali  have  relapsed?" 

"Disappointment  here,  flattery  in  England — there 
are  many  reasons.     Usually  there's  a  particular  reason." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  Linforth. 

"The  love  of  a  white  woman." 

282 


NEWS  FROM  AJMERE 

Ralston  was  aware  that  Linforth  at  his  side  started. 
He  started  ever  so  sHghtly.  But  Ralston  w^as  on  the 
alert.  He  made  no  sign,  however,  that  he  had  noticed 
anything. 

"I  know  that  reason  held  good  in  Shere  Ali's  ease," 
Ralston  went  on;  and  there  came  a  change  in  Lin- 
forth's  voice.     It  grew  rather  stern,  rather  abrupt. 

"Why?     Has  he  talked?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  Nevertheless,  I  am  sure  that 
there  was  one  who  played  a  part  in  Shere  All's  life," 
said  Ralston.  "I  have  known  it  ever  since  I  first  met 
him — more  than  a  year  ago  on  his  way  northwards  to 
Chiltistan.  He  stopped  for  a  day  at  Lahore  and  rode 
out  with  me.  I  told  him  that  the  Government  ex- 
pected him  to  marry  as  soon  as  possible,  and  settle 
down  in  his  own  country.  I  gave  him  that  advice 
deliberately.  You  see  I  wanted  to  find  out.  And  I 
did  find  out.  His  consternation,  his  anger,  answered 
me  clearly  enough.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  was 
someone  over  there  in  England — a  woman,  perhaps  an 
innocent  woman,  who  had  been  merely  careless — per- 
haps  " 

But  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Linforth  inter- 
rupted him  before  he  had  time  to  complete  it.  And  he 
interrupted  without  flurry  or  any  sign  of  agitation. 

"There  was  a  woman,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  think 
she  was  thoughtless.  I  don't  see  how  she  could  have 
known  that  there  was  any  danger  in  her  friendliness. 

283 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

For  she  was  merely  friendly  to  Shere  Ali.  I  know  her 
myself." 

The  answer  was  given  frankly  and  simply.  For  once 
Ralston  was  outwitted.  Dick  Linforth  had  Violet 
Oliver  to  defend,  and  the  defence  was  well  done. 
Ralston  was  left  without  a  suspicion  that  Linforth  had 
any  reason  beyond  the  mere  truth  of  the  facts  to  spur 
him  to  defend  her. 

"Yes,  that's  the  mistake,"  said  Ralston.  "The 
woman's  friendly  and  means  no  more  than  she  says  or 
looks.  But  these  fellows  don't  understand  such 
friendship.  Shere  Ali  is  here  dreaming  of  a  woman 
he  knows  he  can  never  marry — because  of  his  race. 
And  so  he's  ready  to  run  amuck.  That's  what  it 
comes  to." 

He  turned  away  from  the  city  as  he  spoke  and  took 
a  step  or  two  towards  the  flight  of  stone  stairs  which 
led  down  from  the  tower. 

"Where  is  Shere  AH  now?"  Linforth  asked,  and 
Ralston  stopped  and  came  back  again. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "But  I  shall  know,  and 
very  soon.  There  may  be  a  letter  waiting  for  me  at 
home.  You  see,  when  there's  trouble  brewing  over 
there  behind  the  hills,  and  I  want  to  discover  to  what 
height  it  has  grown  and  how  high  it's  likely  to  grow,  I 
select  one  of  my  police,  a  Pathan,  of  course,  and  I 
send  him  to  find  out." 

"You  send  him  over  the  Malakand,"  said  Linforth, 

284 


NEWS  FROM  AJMERE 

with  a  glance  towards  the  great  hill-barrier.     He  was 
to  be  astonished  by  the  answer  Ralston  gave. 

"No.     On  the  contrary,  I  send  him  south.     I  send 
him  to  Ajmere,  in  Rajputana." 
"In  Ajmere?"  cried  Linforth. 

"Yes.  There  is  a  great  Mohammedan  shrine.  Pil- 
grims go  there  from  all  parts,  but  mostly  from  beyond 
the  frontier.  I  get  my  fingers  on  the  pulse  of  the  fron- 
tier in  Ajmere  more  surely  than  I  should  if  I  sent  spies 
up  into  the  hills.  I  have  a  man  there  now.  But  that's 
not  all.  There's  a  great  feast  in  Ajmere  this  week. 
And  I  think  I  shall  find  out  from  there  where  Shere  Ali 
is  and  what  he's  doing.  As  soon  as  I  do  find  out,  I 
want  you  to  go  to  him." 

"I  understand,"  said  Linforth.  "But  if  he  has 
changed  so  much,  he  will  have  changed  to  me." 

"Yes,"  Ralston  admitted.  He  turned  again  towards 
the  steps,  and  the  two  men  descended  to  their  horses. 
"That's  likely  enough.  They  ought  to  have  sent  you 
to  me  six  months  ago.  Anyway,  you  must  do  your 
best."  He  climbed  into  the  saddle,  and  Linforth  did 
the  same. 

"Very  well,"  said  Dick,  as  they  rode  through  the 
archway.  "I  will  do  my  best,"  and  he  turned  towards 
Ralston  with  a  smile.  "I'll  do  my  best  to  hinder  the 
Road  from  going  on." 

It  was  a  queer  piece  of  irony  that  the  first  real  de- 
mand made  upon  him  in  his  life  was  that  he  should 

285 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

stop  the  very  thing  on  the  accomphshment  of  which  his 
hopes  were  set.  But  there  was  his  friend  to  save.  He 
comforted  himself  with  that  thought.  There  was  his 
friend  rushing  bHndly  upon  ruin.  Linforth  could  not 
doubt  it.  How  in  the  world  could  Shere  Ali,  he  won- 
dered. He  could  not  yet  dissociate  the  Shere  Ali  of 
to-day  from  the  boy  and  the  youth  who  had  been  his 
chum. 

They  passed  out  of  the  further  gate  of  Peshawur  and 
rode  along  the  broad  white  road  towards  Government 
House.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  as  they  turned  in 
at  the  gateway  of  the  garden,  lights  shone  in  the  win- 
dows ahead  of  them.  The  lights  recalled  to  Ralston's 
mind  a  fact  which  he  had  forgotten  to  mention. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  turning  towards  Linforth, 
"we  have  a  lady  staying  with  us  who  knows  you." 

Linforth  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle  and  stooped  as 
if  to  adjust  a  stirrup,  and  it  was  thus  a  second  or  two 
before  he  answered. 

"Indeed!"  he  said.     "\^Tio  is  she?" 

"A  Mrs.  Oliver,"  replied  Ralston.  "She  was  at 
Srinagar  in  Cashmere  this  summer,  staying  with  the 
Resident.  My  sister  met  her  there,  I  think  she  told 
Mrs.  Oliver  you  were  likely  to  come  to  us  about  this 
time." 

Dick's  heart  leaped  within  him  suddenly.  Had 
Violet  Oliver  arranged  her  visit  so  that  it  might  coin- 
cide with  his  ?     It  was  at  all  events  a  pleasant  fancy  to 

286 


NEWS  FROM  AJjNIERE 

play  with.  He  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  house. 
She  was  really  there!  After  all  these  months  he  would 
see  her.  No  wonder  the  windows  were  bright.  As 
they  rode  up  to  the  porch  and  the  door  was  opened,  he 
heard  her  voice.  She  was  singing  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  stood  open.  She 
sang  in  a  low  small  voice,  very  pretty  to  the  ear,  and 
she  was  accompanying  herself  softly  on  the  piano. 
Dick  stood  for  a  while  listening  in  the  lofty  hall,  while 
Ralston  looked  over  his  letters  which  were  lying  upon 
a  small  table.  He  opened  one  of  them  and  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

''This  is  from  my  man  at  Ajmere,'*  he  said,  but  Dick 
paid  no  attention.     Ralston  glanced  through  the  letter. 

"He  has  found  him,"  he  cried.  "Shere  Ali  is  in 
A  j  mere." 

It  took  a  moment  or  two  for  the  words  to  penetrate 
to  Linforth's  mind.     Then  he  said  slowly: 

"Oh!  Shere  Ali's  in  Ajmere.  I  must  start  for 
A j mere  to-morrow." 

Ralston  looked  up  from  his  letters  and  glanced  at 
Linforth.  Something  in  the  abstracted  way  in  which 
Linforth  had  spoken  attracted  his  attention.  He 
smiled : 

"Yes,  it's  a  pity,"  he  said.  But  again  it  seemed  that 
Linforth  did  not  hear.  And  then  the  voice  at  the  piano 
stopped  abruptly  as  though  the  singer  had  just  become 
aware  that  there  were  people  talking  in  the  hall,     Lin- 

287 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

forth  moved  forward,  and  in  the  doorway  of  the  draw= 
ing-room  he  came  face  to  face  with  Violet  Oliver. 
Ralston  smiled  again. 

"There's  something  between  those  two,"  he  said  to 
himself.  But  Linforth  had  kept  his  secrets  better  half 
an  hour  ago.  For  it  did  not  occur  to  Ralston  to  sus- 
pect that  there  had  been  something  also  between  Violet 
Oliver  and  Shere  Ali. 


288 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN   THE   ROSE   GARDEN 

"Let  us  go  out/'  said  Linforth. 

It  was  after  dinner  on  the  same  evening,  and  he  was 
standing  with  Violet  OHver  at  the  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. Behind  them  an  officer  and  his  wife  from 
the  cantonment  were  playing  "Bridge"  with  Ralston  and 
his  sister.  Violet  Oliver  hesitated.  The  window 
opened  upon  the  garden.  Already  Linforth's  hand  was 
on  the  knob. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  But  there  was  a  note  of 
reluctance  in  her  voice. 

"You  will  need  a  cloak,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Violet  Oliver.  She  had  a  scarf  of  lace 
in  her  hand,  and  she  twisted  it  about  her  throat.  Lin- 
forth opened  the  long  window  and  they  stepped  out  into 
the  garden.  It  was  a  clear  night  of  bright  stars.  The 
chill  of  sunset  had  passed,  the  air  was  warm.  It  was 
dark  in  spite  of  the  stars.  The  path  glimmered  faintly 
in  front  of  them. 

"I  was  hoping  very  much  that  I  should  meet  you 
somewhere  in  India,"  said  Dick.  "  Lately  I  had  grown 
afraid  that  you  would  be  going  home  before  the  chance 
came." 

289 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"You  left  it  to  chance,"  said  Violet. 

The  reluctance  had  gone  from  her  voice;  but  in  its 
place  there  was  audible  a  note  of  resentment.  She  had 
spoken  abruptly  and  a  little  sharply,  as  though  a 
grievance  present  in  her  mind  had  caught  her  unawares 
and  forced  her  to  give  it  utterance. 

"No,"  replied  Linforth,  turning  to  her  earnestly. 
"That's  not  fair.  I  did  not  know  where  you  were.  I 
asked  all  who  might  be  likely  to  know.  No  one  could 
tell  me.  I  could  not  get  away  from  my  station.  So 
that  I  had  to  leave  it  to  chance." 

They  w^alked  down  the  drive,  and  then  turned  off 
past  the  croquet  lawn  towards  a  garden  of  roses  and 
jasmine  and  chrysanthemums. 

"And  chance,  after  all,  has  been  my  friend,"  he  said 
with  a  smile. 

Violet  Oliver  stopped  suddenly.  Linforth  turned  to 
her.  They  were  walking  along  a  narrow  path  between 
high  bushes  of  rhododendrons.  It  was  very  dark,  so 
that  Linforth  could  only  see  dimly  her  face  and  eyes 
framed  in  the  white  scarf  which  she  had  draped  over 
her  hair.  But  even  so  he  could  see  that  she  was  very 
grave. 

"I  was  wondering  whether  I  should  tell  you,"  she 
said  quietly.  "It  was  not  chance  which  brought  me 
here — which  brought  us  together  again." 

Dick  came  to  her  side. 

"No?"  he  asked,  looking  down  into  her  face.     He 

290 


IN  THE  ROSE   GARDEN 

spoke  very  gently,  and  with  a  graver  voice  than  he  had 
used  before. 

"No,"  she  answered.  Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his 
frankly  and  simply.  '*I  heard  that  you  were  to  be 
here.  I  came  on  that  account.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
again." 

As  she  finished  she  walked  forward  again,  and  again 
Linforth  walked  at  her  side.  Dick,  though  his  settled 
aim  had  given  to  him  a  manner  and  an  aspect  beyond 
his  age,  was  for  the  same  reason  younger  than  his 
years  in  other  ways.  Very  early  in  his  youth  he  had 
come  by  a  great  and  definite  ambition,  he  had  been 
inspired  by  it,  he  had  welcomed  and  clung  to  it  with 
the  simplicity  and  whole-heartedness  which  are  of  the 
essence  of  youth.  It  was  always  new  to  him,  however 
long  he  pondered  over  it;  his  joy  in  it  was  always 
fresh.  He  had  never  doubted  either  the  true  gold  of 
the  thing  he  desired,  or  his  capacity  ultimately  to  attain 
it.  But  he  had  ordered  his  life  towards  its  attainment 
with  the  method  of  a  far  older  man,  examining  each 
opportunity  which  came  his  way  with  always  the  one 
question  in  his  mind — "Does  it  help?" — and  leaving 
or  using  that  opportunity  according  to  the  answer. 
Youth,  however,  was  the  truth  of  him.  The  inspiration, 
the  freshness,  the  simplicity  of  outlook — these  were  the 
dominating  elements  in  his  character,  and  they  were 
altogether  compact  of  youth.  He  looked  upon  the 
world  with  expectant  eyes  and  an  unfaltering  faith. 

291 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Nor  did  he  go  about  to  detect  intrigues  in  men  or 
deceits  in  women.  Violet's  words  therefore  moved 
him  not  merely  to  tenderness,  but  to  self-reproach. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  that,"  he  said,  and  he 
turned  to  her  suddenly.     "Because  you  mean  it." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Violet  simply ;  and  the  next  moment 
she  was  aware  that  someone  very  young  was  standing 
before  her  in  that  Indian  garden  beneath  the  starlit  sky 
and  faltering  out  statements  as  to  his  unworthiness. 
The  statements  were  familiar  to  her  ears,  but  there  was 
this  which  was  unfamiliar:  they  stirred  her  to  passion. 

She  stepped  back,  throwing  out  a  hand  as  if  to  keep 
him  from  her. 

"  Don't,"  she  whispered.     "  Don't ! " 

She  spoke  like  one  who  is  hurt.  Amongst  the  feelings 
which  had  waked  in  her,  dim  and  for  the  most  part 
hardly  understood,  two  at  all  events  were  clear.  One 
a  vague  longing  for  something  different  from  the  banal 
path  she  daily  trod,  the  other  a  poignant  regret  that 
she  was  as  she  was. 

But  Linforth  caught  the  hand  which  she  held  out  to 
thrust  him  off,  and,  clasping  it,  drew  her  towards  him. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said;  and  she  answered  him  in 
desperation : 

"But  you  don't  know  me." 

"I  know  that  I  want  you.  I  know  that  I  am  not 
fit  for  you." 

And  Violet  Oliver  laughed  harshly. 

292 


IN  THE  ROSE   GARDEN 

But  Dick  Linforth  paid  no  attention  to  that  laugh. 
His  hesitation  had  gone.  He  found  that  for  this  occa- 
sion only  he  had  the  gift  of  tongues.  There  was  nothing 
new  and  original  in  what  he  said.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  said  it  over  and  over  again,  and  the  look  upon 
his  face  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  were  the  things  which 
mattered.  At  the  opera  it  is  the  singer  you  listen  to, 
and  not  the  words  of  the  song.  So  in  this  rose  garden 
Violet  Oliver  listened  to  Dick  Linforth  rather  than  to 
what  he  said.  There  was  audible  in  his  voice  from 
sentence  to  sentence,  ringing  through  them,  inspiring 
them,  the  reverence  a  young  man's  heart  holds  for  the 
woman  whom  he  loves. 

"You  ought  to  marry,  not  me,  but  someone  better," 
she  cried.  "There  is  someone  I  know — in — England 
—who " 

But  Linforth  would  not  listen.  He  laughed  to  scorn 
the  notion  that  there  could  be  anyone  better  than 
Violet  Oliver;  and  with  each  word  he  spoke  he  seemed 
to  grow  younger.  It  was  as  though  a  miracle  had  hap- 
pened. He  remained  in  her  eyes  what  he  really  was, 
a  man  head  and  shoulders  above  her  friends,  and  in 
fibre  altogether  different.  Yet  to  her,  and  for  her,  he 
was  young,  and  younger  than  the  youngest.  In  spite 
of  herself,  the  longing  at  her  heart  cried  with  a  louder 
voice.     She  sought  to  stifle  it. 

"There  is  the  Road,"  she  cried.  "That  is  first  with 
you.     That  is  what  you  really  care  for." 

293 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"No,"  he  replied  quietly.  She  had  hoped  to  take 
him  at  a  disadvantage.     But  he  replied  at  once: 

"No.  I  have  thought  that  out.  I  do  not  separate 
you  from  the  Road.  I  put  neither  first.  It  is  true 
that  there  was  a  time  when  the  Road  was  everything 
to  me.  But  that  was  before  I  met  you — do  you  remem- 
ber?— in  the  inn  at  La  Grave." 

Violet  Oliver  looked  curiously  at  Linforth — curiously, 
and  rather  quickly.  But  it  seemed  that  he  at  all  events 
did  not  remember  that  he  had  not  come  alone  down  to 
La  Grave. 

"  It  isn't  that  I  have  come  to  care  less  for  the  Road," 
he  went  on.  "  Not  by  one  jot.  Rather,  indeed,  I  care 
more.  But  I  can't  dissociate  you  from  the  Road.  The 
Road's  my  life-work;  but  it  will  be  the  better  done  if 
it's  done  with  your  help.  It  will  be  done  best  of  all 
if  it's  done  for  you." 

Violet  Oliver  turned  away  quickly,  and  stood  with 
her  head  averted.  Ardently  she  longed  to  take  him 
at  his  word.  A  glimpse  of  a  great  life  was  vouch- 
safed to  her,  such  as  she  had  not  dreamt  of.  That 
some  time  she  would  marry  again,  she  had  not 
doubted.  But  always  she  had  thought  of  her  hus- 
band to  be,  as  a  man  very  rich,  with  no  ambition 
but  to  please  her,  no  work  to  do  which  would  thwart 
her.  And  here  was  another  life  offered,  a  life  upon 
a  higher,  a  more  difficult  plane;  but  a  life  much  more 
worth   living.     That   she    saw    clearly  enough.     But 

294 


IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

out  of  her  self-knowledge  sprang  the  insistent  ques- 
tion : 

"Could  Hive  it?" 

There  would  be  sacrifices  to  be  made  by  her.  Could 
she  make  them?  Would  not  dissatisfaction  with  her- 
self follow  very  quickly  upon  her  marriage?  Out  of 
her  dissatisfaction  would  there  not  grow  disappoint- 
ment in  her  husband?  Would  not  bitterness  spring 
up  between  them  and  both  their  lives  be  marred  ? 

Dick  was  still  holding  her  hand. 

"Let  me  see  you,"  he  said,  drawing  her  towards  him. 
"Let  me  see  your  face!" 

She  turned  and  showed  it.  There  was  a  great  trouble 
in  her  eyes,  her  voice  w^as  piteous  as  she  spoke. 

"Dick,  I  can't  answer  you.  When  I  told  you  that  I 
came  here  on  purpose  to  meet  you,  that  I  wanted  to 
see  you  again,  it  was  true,  all  true.  But  oh,  Dick,  did 
I  mean  more?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  said  Dick,  with  a  quiet 
laugh — a  laugh  of  happiness. 

"I  suppose  that  I  did.  I  wanted  you  to  say  just 
what  you  have  said  to-night.     Yet  now  that  you  have 

said  it "  she  broke  off  with  a  cry.     "Dick,  I  have 

met  no  one  like  you  in  my  life.  And  I  am  very  proud. 
Oh,  Dick,  my  boy!"  And  she  gave  him  her  other 
hand.     Tears  glistened  in  her  eyes. 

"But  I  am  not  sure,"  she  went  on.  "Now  that  you 
have  spoken,  I  am  not  sure.     It  would  be  all  so  different 

295 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

from  what  my  life  has  been,  from  what  I  thought  it 
would  be.     Dick,  you  make  me  ashamed." 

"Hush!"  he  said  gently,  as  one  might  chide  a  child 
for  talking  nonsense.  He  put  an  arm  about  her,  and 
she  hid  her  face  in  his  coat. 

"Yes,  that's  the  truth,  Dick.  You  make  me 
ashamed." 

So  she  remained  for  a  little  while,  and  then  she  drew 
herself  away. 

"I  will  think  and  tell  vou,  Dick,"  she  said. 

"Tell  me  now!" 

"No,  not  yet.  It's  all  your  life  and  my  life,  you 
know,  Dick.     Give  me  a  little  while." 

"I  go  away  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  I  go  to  Ajmere.  I  go  to  find  my  friend.  I 
must  go." 

Violet  started.  Into  her  eyes  there  crept  a  look  of 
fear,  and  she  was  silent. 

"The  Prince?"  she  asked  with  a  queer  suspense  in 
her  voice. 

"Yes — Shere  Ali,"  and  Dick  became  perceptibly 
embarrassed.  "He  is  not  as  friendly  to  us  as  he  used 
to  be.     There  is  some  trouble,"  he  said  lamely. 

Violet  looked  him  frankly  in  the  face.  It  was  not 
her  habit  to  flinch.  She  read  and  understood  his  em- 
barrassment.    Yet  her  eyes  met  his  quite  steadily. 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  am  the  trouble,"  she  said  quietly. 

296 


IN  THE  ROSE   GAllDEN 

Dick  did  not  deny  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  as  yet  no  thought  or  word  of  blame 
for  her.  There  was  more  for  her  to  tell  He  waited 
to  hear  it. 

*'I  tried  to  avoid  him  here  in  India,  as  I  told  you 
I  meant  to  do,"  she  said.  "I  thought  he  was  safe  in 
ChiUistan.  I  did  not  let  him  know  that  I  was  coming 
out.  I  did  not  write  to  him  after  I  had  landed.  But 
he  came  down  to  Agra — and  we  met.  There  he  asked 
me  to  marry  him." 

"He  asked  you!"  cried  Linforth.  "He  must  have 
been  mad  to  think  that  such  a  thing  was  possible." 

"He  was  very  unhappy,"  Violet  Oliver  explained. 
"I  told  him  that  it  was  impossible.  But  he  would 
not  see.  I  am  afraid  that  is  the  cause  of  his  unfriendli- 
ness." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick.     Then  he  was  silent  for  a  little 

while. 

"But  you  are  not  to  blame,"  he  added  at  length,  in 
a  quiet  but  decisive  voice;  and  he  turned  as  though  the 
subject  were  now  closed. 

But  Violet  was  not  content.  She  stayed  him  with  a 
gesture.  She  was  driven  that  night  to  speak  out  all 
the  truth.  Certainly  he  deserved  that  she  should  make 
no  concealment.  Moreover,  the  truth  would  put  him 
to  the  test,  would  show  to  her  how  deep  his  passion 
ran.  It  might  change  his  thoughts  towards  her,  and 
so  she  would  escape  by  the  easiest  way  the  difficult 

297 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

problem  she  had  to  solve.  And  the  easiest  way  was  the 
way  which  Violet  Oliver  always  chose  to  take. 

"  I  am  to  blame,"  she  said.  "  I  took  jewels  from  him 
in  London.  Yes."  She  saw  Dick  standing  in  front 
of  her,  silent  and  with  a  face  quite  inscrutable,  and  she 
lowered  her  head  and  spoke  with  the  submission  of  a 
penitent  to  her  judge.  "  He  offered  me  jewels.  I  love 
them,"  and  she  spread  out  her  hands.  "  Yes,  I  cannot 
help  it.  I  am  a  foolish  lover  of  beautiful  things.  I 
took  them.  I  made  no  promises,  he  asked  for  none. 
There  were  no  conditions,  he  stipulated  for  none.  He 
just  offered  me  the  pearls,  and  I  took  them.  But  very 
likely  he  thought  that  my  taking  them  meant  more  than 
it  did." 

"And  where  are  they  now?"  asked  Dick. 

She  was  silent  for  a  perceptible  time.     Then  she  said : 

"I  sent  them  back."  She  heard  Dick  draw  a  breath 
of  relief,  and  she  went  on  quickly,  as  though  she  had 
been  in  doubt  what  she  should  say  and  now  was  sure. 
"The  same  night — after  he  had  asked  me  to  marry 
him — I  packed  them  up  and  sent  them  to  him." 

"He  has  them  now,  then?"  asked  Linforth. 

"I  don't  know.  I  sent  them  to  Kohara.  I  did  not 
know  in  what  camp  he  was  staying.  I  thought  it 
likely  he  would  go  home  at  once." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick. 

They  turned  and  walked  back  towards  the  house. 
Dick  did  not  speak.     Violet  was  afraid.     She  walked 

298 


IN  THE  ROSE   GARDEN 

by  his  side,  stealing  every  now  and  then  a  look  at  his 
set  face.  It  was  dark;  she  could  see  little  but  the  pro- 
file. But  she  imagined  it  very  stern,  and  she  was  afraid. 
She  regretted  now  that  she  had  spoken.  She  felt  now 
that  she  could  not  lose  him. 

"Dick,"  she  whispered  timidly,  laying  a  hand  upon 
his  arm;  but  he  made  no  answer.  The  lighted  win- 
dows of  the  house  blazed  upon  the  night.  Would  he 
reach  the  door,  pass  in  and  be  gone  the  next  morning 
without  another  word  to  her  except  a  formal  good- 
night in  front  of  the  others  ? 

''Oh,  Dick,"  she  said  again,  entreatingly;  and  at  that 
reiteration  of  his  name  he  stopped. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  gently.  "But  I  know 
quite  well — others  have  taken  presents  from  these 
princes.  It  is  a  pity.  .  .  .  One  rather  hates  it.  But 
you  sent  yours  back,"  and  he  turned  to  her  with  a 
smile.  "The  others  have  not  always  done  as  much. 
Yes,  you  sent  yours  back." 

Violet  Oliver  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  She  raised  her 
face  towards  his.     She  spoke  with  pleading  lips. 

"I  am  forgiven  then?" 

"Hush!" 

And  in  a  moment  she  was  in  his  arms.  Passion 
swept  her  away.  It  seemed  to  her  that  new  worlds 
were  opening  before  her  eyes.  There  were  heights  to 
walk  upon  for  her — even  for  her  who  had  never  dreamed 
that  she  would  even  see  them  near.     Their  lips  touched. 

'  299 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Oh,  Dick/'  she  murmured.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  about  his  neck.  She  hid  her  face  against  his 
coat,  and  when  he  would  raise  it  she  would  not  suffer 
him.  But  in  a  little  while  she  drew  herself  apart,  and, 
holding  his  hands,  looked  at  him  with  a  great  pride. 

"  My  Dick,"  she  said,  and  she  laughed — a  low  sweet 
laugh  of  happiness  which  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  her 
lover. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,"  she  said.  "When  I  said 
good-bye  to  him — to  the  Prince — he  asked  me  if  I  was 
going  to  marry  you." 

"And  you  answered?" 

"That  you  hadn't  asked  me." 

"Now  I  have.     Violet!"  he  whispered. 

But  now  she  held  him  off,  and  suddenly  her  face 
grew  serious. 

"Dick,  I  will  tell  you  something,"  she  said,  "now, 
so  that  I  may  never  tell  you  it  again.  Remember  it, 
Dick!     For  both  our  sakes  remember  it!" 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"Don't  forgive  so  easily,"  she  said  very  gravely, 
"when  we  both  know  that  there  is  something  real  to  be 
forgiven."  She  let  go  of  his  hands  before  he  could 
answer,  and  ran  from  him  up  the  steps  into  the  house. 
Linforth  saw  no  more  of  her  that  night. 


300 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   BREAKING   OF   THE   PITCHER 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Peshawur  to  Ajmere,  and  I>in- 
forth  travelled  in  the  train  for  two  nights  and  the 
greater  part  of  two  days  before  he  came  to  it.  A  httle 
State  carved  out  of  Rajputana  and  settled  under  Eng- 
lish rule,  it  is  the  place  of  all  places  where  East  and 
West  come  nearest  to  meeting.  Within  the  walls  of  the 
city  the  great  Dargah  Mosque,  with  its  shrine  of  pil- 
grimage and  its  ancient  rites,  lies  close  against  the  foot 
of  the  Taragarh  Hill.  Behind  it  the  mass  of  the  moun- 
tain rises  steeply  to  its  white  crown  of  fortress  walls. 
In  front,  its  high  bright-blue  archway,  a  thing  of  cu- 
polas and  porticoes,  faces  the  narrow  street  of  the  grain- 
sellers  and  the  locksmiths.  Here  is  the  East,  with  its 
memories  of  Akbar  and  Shah  Jehan,  its  fiery  super- 
stitions and  its  crudities  of  decoration.  Gaudy  chan- 
deliers of  coloured  glass  hang  from  the  roof  of  a  marble 
mosque,  and  though  the  marble  may  crack  and  no  one 
give  heed  to  it,  the  glass  chandeliers  will  be  carefully 
swathed  in  holland  bags.  Here  is  the  East,  but  out- 
side the  city  walls  the  pile  of  ]\Iayo  College  rises  high 
above  its  playing-grounds  and  gives  to  the  princes  and 
the  chiefs  of  Rajputana  a  modern  public  school  for  the 
education  of  their  sons. 

301 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

From  the  roof  top  of  the  college  tower  Linforth 
looked  to  the  city  huddled  under  the  Taragarh  Hill, 
and  dimly  made  out  the  high  archway  of  the  mosque. 
He  turned  back  to  the  broad  playing-fields  at  his  feet 
where  a  cricket  match  was  going  on.  There  was  the 
true  solution  of  the  great  problem,  he  thought. 

"Here  at  Ajmere,"  he  said  to  himself,  "Shere  Ali 
could  have  learned  what  the  West  had  to  teach  him. 
Had  he  come  here  he  would  have  been  spared  the  dis- 
appointments, and  the  disillusions.  He  would  not 
have  fallen  in  with  Violet  Oliver.  He  would  have 
married  and  ruled  in  his  own  countrv." 

As  it  was,  he  had  gone  instead  to  Eton  and  to  Oxford, 
and  Linforth  must  needs  search  for  him  over  there  in 
the  huddled  city  under  the  Taragarh  Hill.  Ralston's 
Pathan  was  even  then  w^aiting  for  Linforth  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  tower. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  making  a  low  salaam  when  Linforth 
had  descended,  "His  Highness  Shere  Ali  is  now  in 
Ajmere.  Every  morning  between  ten  and  eleven  he 
is  to  be  found  in  a  balconv  above  the  well  at  the  back 
of  the  Dargah  INIosque,  and  to-morrow  I  will  lead  you 
to  him." 

"Every  morning!"  said  Linforth.  "What  does  he 
do  upon  this  balcony?" 

"He  watches  the  well  below,  and  the  water-carriers 
descending  with  their  jars,"  said  the  Pathan,  "and  he 
talks  with  his  friends.     That  is  all." 

302 


THE   BREAKING   OF  TIJE   PITCHER 

"Very  well,"  said  Linforth.  "To-morrow  we  will 
go  to  him." 

He  passed  up  the  steps  under  the  blue  portico  a  little 
before  the  hour  on  the  next  morning,  and  entered  a 
stone-flagged  court  which  was  thronged  with  pilgrims. 
On  each  side  of  the  archway  a  great  copper  vat  was 
raised  upon  stone  steps,  and  it  was  about  these  two 
vats  that  the  crowd  thronged.  Linforth  and  his  guide 
coidd  hardly  force  their  way  through.  On  the  steps 
of  the  vats  natives,  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  cloths  to  save 
themselves  from  burns,  stood  emptying  the  caldrons  of 
boiling  ghee.  And  on  every  side  Linforth  heard  the 
name  of  "Shere  Ali"  spoken  in  praise. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  asked  of  his  guide,  and 
the  Pathan  replied: 

"His  Highness  the  Prince  has  made  an  offering. 
He  has  filled  those  caldrons  with  rice  and  butter  and 
spices,  as  pilgrims  of  great  position  and  honour  some- 
times do.  The  rice  is  cooked  in  the  vats,  and  so  many 
jars  are  set  aside  for  the  strangers,  while  the  people  of 
Indrakot  have  hereditary  rights  to  what  is  left.  Sir, 
it  is  an  act  of  great  piety  to  make  so  rich  an  offering." 

Linforth  looked  at  the  swathed  men  scrambling,  with 
cries  of  pain,  for  the  burning  rice.  He  remembered 
how  lightly  Shere  Ali  had  been  wont  to  speak  of  the 
superstitions  of  the  Mohammedans  and  in  what  con- 
tempt he  held  the  Mullahs  of  his  country.  Not  in 
those  days  would  he  have  celebrated  his  pilgrimage  to 

303 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  shrine  of  Khwajah  Mueeyinu-din  Chisti  by  a  pubHc 
offering  of  ghee. 

Linforth  looked  back  upon  the  Indrakotis  struggHng 
and  scrambling  and  burning  themselves  on  the  steps 
about  the  vast  caldrons,  and  the  crowd  waiting  and 
clamouring  below.  It  was  a  scene  grotesque  enough 
in  all  conscience,  but  Linforth  was  never  further  from 
smiling  than  at  this  moment.  A  strong  intuition  made 
him  grave. 

"Does  this  mark  Shere  All's  return  to  the  ways  of 
his  fathers?"  he  asked  himself.  "Is  this  his  renuncia- 
tion of  the  White  People?" 

He  moved  forward  slowly  towards  the  inner  archway, 
and  the  Pathan  at  his  side  gave  a  new  turn  to  his 
thoughts. 

"Sir,  that  will  be  talked  of  for  many  months,"  the 
Pathan  said.  "The  Prince  will  gain  many  friends  who 
up  till  now  distrust  him." 

"It  will  be  taken  as  a  sign  of  faith  ?"  asked  Linforth. 

"And  more  than  that,"  said  the  guide  significantly. 
"This  one  thing  done  here  in  Ajmere  to-day  will  be 
spread  abroad  through  Chiltistan  and  beyond." 

Linforth  looked  more  closely  at  the  crowd.  Yes, 
there  were  many  men  there  from  the  hills  beyond  the 
Frontier  to  carry  the  news  of  Shere  All's  munificence 
to  their  homes. 

"It  costs  a  thousand  rupees  at  the  least  to  fill  one  of 
those  caldrons,"  said  the  Pathan.     "  In  truth,  his  High- 

304 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

ness  has  done  a  wise  thing  if "     And  he  left  the 

sentence  unfinished. 

But  Linforth  could  fill  in  the  gap. 

"If  he  means  to  make  trouble." 

But  he  did  not  utter  the  explanation  aloud. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  he  said;  and  they  passed  through  the 
high  inner  archway  into  the  great  court  where  the  saint's 
tomb,  gilded  and  decked  out  with  canopies  and  marble, 
stands  in  the  middle. 

"Follow  me  closely,"  said  the  Pathan.  "There  may 
be  bad  men.  Watch  any  who  approach  you,  and  should 
one  spit,  I  beseech  your  Excellency  to  pay  no  heed." 

The  huge  paved  square,  indeed,  was  thronged  like  a 
bazaar.  Along  the  wall  on  the  left  hand  booths  were 
erected,  where  food  and  sweetmeats  were  being  sold. 
Stone  tombs  dotted  the  enclosure;  and  amongst  them 
men  walked  up  and  down,  shouting  and  talking.  Here 
and  there  big  mango  and  peepul  trees  threw  a  welcome 
shade. 

The  Pathan  led  Linforth  to  the  right  between  the 
Chisti's  tomb  and  the  raised  marble  court  surrounded 
by  its  marble  balustrade  in  front  of  the  long  mosque  of 
Shah  Jehan.  Behind  the  tomb  there  were  more  trees, 
and  the  shrine  of  a  dancing  saint,  before  which  dancers 
from  Chitral  were  moving  in  and  out  with  quick  and 
flying  steps.  The  Pathan  led  Linforth  quickly  through 
the  groups,  and  though  here  and  there  a  man  stood  in 
their  way  and  screamed  insults,  and  here  and  there  one 

305 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

walked  along  beside  them  with  a  scowling  face  and 
muttered  threats,  no  one  molested  them. 

The  Pathan  turned  to  the  right,  mounted  a  few  steps, 
and  passed  under  a  low  stone  archway.  '  Linforth  found 
himself  upon  a  balcony  overhanging  a  great  ditch  be- 
tween the  Dargah  and  Taragarh  Hill.  He  leaned  for- 
ward over  the  balustrade,  and  from  every  direction, 
opposite  to  him,  below  him,  and  at  the  ends,  steps  ran 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  gulf — twisting  and  turning  at 
every  sort  of  angle,  now  in  long  lines,  now  narrow  as  a 
stair.  The  place  had  the  look  of  some  ancient  amphi- 
theatre. And  at  the  bottom,  and  a  little  to  the  right 
of  the  balcony,  was  the  mouth  of  an  open  spring. 

"The  Prince  is  here,  your  Excellency." 

Linforth  looked  along  the  balcony.  There  were  only 
three  men  standing  there,  in  white  robes,  with  white 
turbans  upon  their  heads.  The  turban  of  one  was 
hemmed  with  gold.     There  was  gold,  too,  upon  his  robe. 

"No,"  said  Linforth.  "He  has  not  yet  come,"  and 
even  as  he  turned  again  to  look  down  into  that  strange 
gulf  of  steps  the  man  with  the  gold-hemmed  turban 
changed  his  attitude  and  showed  Linforth  the  profile 
of  his  face. 

Linforth  was  startled. 

"Is  that  the  Prince  ?"  he  exclaimed.  He  saw  a  man, 
young  to  be  sure,  but  older  than  Shere  Ali,  and  surely 
taller  too.  He  looked  more  closely.  That  small  care- 
fully trimmed  black  beard  might  give  the  look  of  age, 

306 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

the  long  robe  add  to  his  height.  Yes,  it  was  Shere  Ali. 
Linforth  walked  along  the  balcony,  and  as  he  ap- 
proached, Shere  Ali  turned  quickly  towards  him.  The 
blood  rushed  into  his  dark  face;  he  stood  staring  at 
Linforth  like  a  man  transfixed. 

Linforth  held  out  his  hand  with  a  smile. 

"  I  hardly  knew  you  again,"  he  said. 

Shere  Ali  did  not  take  the  hand  outstretched  to  him; 
he  did  not  move;  neither  did  he  speak.  He  just  stood 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Linforth.  But  there  was 
recognition  in  his  eyes,  and  there  was  something  more. 
Linforth  recalled  something  that  Violet  Oliver  had  told 
to  him  in  the  garden  at  Peshawur — "Are  you  going  to 
marry  Linforth?"  That  had  been  Shere  All's  last 
question  when  he  had  parted  from  her  upon  the  steps 
of  the  courtyard  of  the  Fort.  Linforth  remembered  it 
now  as  he  looked  into  Shere  All's  face.  "Here  is  a 
man  who  hates  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  thus,  for 
the  first  time  since  they  had  dined  together  in  the  mess- 
room  at  Chatham,  the  two  friends  met. 

"Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  me,  Shere  Ali?"  said 
Linforth,  trying  to  force  his  voice  in  to  a  note  of  cheery 
friendliness.  But  the  attempt  was  not  very  successful. 
The  look  of  hatred  upon  Shere  All's  face  had  died  away, 
it  is  true.  But  mere  impassivity  had  replaced  it.  He 
had  aged  greatly  during  those  months.  Linforth  recog- 
nised that  clearly  now.  His  face  was  haggard,  his  eyes 
sunken.    He  was  a  man,  moreover.    He  had  been  little 

307 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

more  than  a  boy  when  he  had  dined  with  Linforth  in 
the  mess-room  at  Chatham. 

"After  all,"  Linforth  continued,  and  his  voice  now 
really  had  something  of  genuine  friendliness,  for  he 
understood  that  Shere  Ali  had  suffered — had  suffered 
deeply;  and  he  was  inclined  to  forgive  his  temerity  in 
proposing  marriage  to  Violet  Oliver — "after  all,  it  is 
not  so  much  more  than  a  year  ago  when  we  last  talked 
together  of  our  plans." 

Shere  Ali  turned  to  the  younger  of  the  two  who  stood 
beside  him  and  spoke  a  few  words  in  a  tongue  which 
Linforth  did  not  yet  understand.  The  youth — he  was 
a  youth  with  a  soft  pleasant  voice,  a  graceful  manner 
and  something  of  the  exquisite  in  his  person — stepped 
smoothly  forward  and  repeated  the  words  to  Linforth's 
Pathan. 

"\Miat  does  he  say?"  asked  Linforth  impatiently. 
The  Pathan  translated : 

"His  Highness  the  Prince  would  be  glad  to  know 
what  your  Excellency  means  by  interrupting  him." 

Linforth  flushed  with  anger.  But  he  had  his  mission 
to  fulfil,  if  it  could  be  fulfilled. 

"\Miat*s  the  use  of  making  this  pretence?"  he  said 
to  Shere  Ali.  "You  and  I  know  one  another  well 
enough." 

And  as  he  ended,  Shere  Ali  suddenly  leaned  over  the 
balustrade  of  the  balcony.  His  two  companions  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his  eyes;    and  both  their  faces 

308 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

became  alert  with  some  expectancy.  For  a  moment 
Linforth  imagined  that  Shere  AK  was  merely  pretend- 
ing to  be  absorbed  in  what  he  saw.  But  he,  too,  looked, 
and  it  grew  upon  him  that  here  was  some  matter  of 
importance — all  three  were  watching  in  so  eager  a 
suspense. 

Yet  what  they  saw  was  a  common  enough  sight  in 
Ajmere,  or  in  any  other  town  of  India.  The  balcony 
was  built  out  from  a  brick  wall  which  fell  sheer  to  the 
bottom  of  the  foss.  But  at  some  little  distance  from 
the  end  of  the  balcony  and  at  the  head  of  the  foss,  a 
road  from  the  town  broke  the  wall,  and  a  flight  of 
steep  steps  descended  to  the  spring.  The  steps  de- 
scended along  the  wall  first  of  all  towards  the  balcony, 
and  then  just  below  the  end  of  it  they  turned,  so  that 
any  man  going  down  to  the  well  would  have  his  face 
towards  the  people  on  the  balcony  for  half  the  descent 
and  his  back  towards  them  during  the  second  half. 

A  water-carrier  with  an  earthen  jar  upon  his  head 
had  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  steps  a  second  before 
Shere  Ali  had  turned  so  abruptly  away  from  Linforth. 
It  was  this  man  whom  the  three  were  watching.  Slowly 
he  descended.  The  steps  were  high  and  worn,  smooth 
and  slippery.  He  went  down  with  his  left  hand  against 
the  wall,  and  the  lizards  basking  in  the  sunlight  scuttled 
into  their  crevices  as  he  approached.  On  his  right 
hand  the  ground  fell  in  a  precipice  to  the  bottom  of  the 
gulf.     The  three  men  watched  him,  and,  it  seemed  to 

309 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Linforth,  with  a  growing  excitement  as  "he  neared  the 
turn  of  the  steps.  It  was  almost  as  though  they  waited 
for  him  to  sUp  just  at  that  turn,  where  a  sHp  was  most 
likely  to  occur. 

Linforth  laughed  at  the  thought,  but  the  thought 
suddenly  gained  strength,  nay,  conviction  in  his  mind. 
For  as  the  water-carrier  reached  the  bend,  turned  in 
safety  and  went  down  towards  the  well,  there  was  a 
simultaneous  movement  made  by  the  three — a  move- 
ment of  disappointment.  Shere  Ali  did  more  than 
merely  move.  He  struck  his  hand  upon  the  balustrade 
and  spoke  impatiently.  But  he  did  not  finish  the  sen- 
tence, for  one  of  his  companions  looked  significantly 
towards  Linforth  and  his  Pathan.  Linforth  stepped 
forward  again. 

"Shere  Ali,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you.  It  is 
important  that  I  should." 

Shere  Ali  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  balustrade,  and 
gazing  across  the  foss  to  the  Taragarh  Hill,  hummed  to 
himself  a  tune. 

"Have  you  forgotten  everything?"  Linforth  went  on. 
He  found  it  difficult  to  say  what  was  in  his  mind.  He 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  a  stranger — so  great  a  gulf 
was  between  them  now — a  gulf  as  wide,  as  impassable, 
as  this  one  at  his  feet  between  the  balcony  and  the 
Taragarh  Hill.  "Have  you  forgotten  that  night  when 
we  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  hut  under  the  Aiguilles 
d'Arve  ?    I  remember  it  very  clearly.     You  said  to  me, 

310 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

of  your  own  accord,  *We  will  always  be  friends.  No 
man,  no  woman,  shall  come  between  us.  We  will 
work  together  and  we  will  always  be  friends.'" 

By  not  so  much  as  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid  did  Shere 
Ali  betray  that  he  heard  the  words.  Linforth  sought 
to  revive  that  night  so  vividly  that  he  needs  must  turn, 
needs  must  respond  to  the  call,  and  needs  must  renew 
the  pledge. 

*'We  sat  for  a  long  while  that  night,  smoking  our 
pipes  on  the  step  of  the  door.  It  was  a  dark  night. 
We  watched  a  planet  throw  its  light  upwards  from  be- 
hind the  amphitheatre  of  hills  on  the  left,  and  then 
rise  clear  to  view  in  a  gap.  There  was  a  smell  of  hay, 
like  an  English  meadow,  from  the  hut  behind  us.  You 
pledged  your  friendship  that  night.  It's  not  so  very 
long  ago — two  years,  that's  all." 

He  came  to  a  stop  with  a  queer  feeling  of  shame.  He 
remembered  the  night  himself,  and  always  had  remem- 
bered it.  But  he  was  not  given  to  sentiment,  and 
here  he  had  been  talking  sentiment  and  to  no  purpose. 

Shere  Ali  spoke  again  to  his  courtier,  and  the  courtier 
stepped  forward  more  bland  than  ever. 

''His  Highness  would  like  to  know  if  his  Excellency 
is  still  talking,  and  if  so,  w^hy?"  he  said  to  the  Pathan, 
who  translated  it. 

Linforth  gave  up  the  attempt  to  renew  his  friendship 
with  Shere  Ali.  He  must  go  back  to  Peshawur  and  tell 
Ralston   that   he  had   failed.     Ralston   would   merely 

311 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

shrug  his  shoulders  and  express  neither  disappointment 
nor  surprise.  But  it  was  a  moment  of  bitterness  to 
Linforth.  He  looked  at  Shere  Ali's  indifferent  face,  he 
listened  for  a  second  or  two  to  the  tune  he  still  hummed, 
and  he  turned  away.  But  he  had  not  taken  more  than 
a  couple  of  steps  towards  the  entrance  of  the  balcony 
when  his  guide  touched  him  cautiously  upon  the  elbow. 

Linforth  stopped  and  looked  back.  The  three  men 
were  once  more  gazing  at  the  steps  which  led  down 
from  the  road  to  the  well.  And  once  more  a  water- 
carrier  descended  with  his  great  earthen  jar  upon  his 
head.  He  descended  very  cautiously,  but  as  he  came 
to  the  turn  of  the  steps  his  foot  slipped  suddenly. 

Linforth  uttered  a  crv,  but  the  man  had  not  fallen. 
He  had  tottered  for  a  moment,  then  he  had  recovered 
himself.  But  the  earthen  jar  which  he  carried  on  his 
head  had  fallen  and  been  smashed  to  atoms. 

Again  the  three  made  a  simultaneous  movement,  but 
this  time  it  was  a  movement  of  joy.  Again  an  exclama- 
tion burst  from  Shere  Ali's  lips,  but  now  it  was  a  cry 
of  triumph. 

He  stood  erect,  and  at  once  he  turned  to  go.  As  he 
turned  he  met  Linforth's  gaze.  All  expression  died 
out  of  his  face,  but  he  spoke  to  his  young  courtier,  who 
fluttered  forward  sniggering  with  amusement. 

"His  Highness  would  like  to  know  if  his  Excellency 
is  interested  in  a  Road.  His  Highness  thinks  it  a 
damn-fool  road.     His  Highness  much  regrets  that  he 

312 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

cannot  even  let  it  go  beyond  Kohara.  His  Highness 
wishes  his  Excellency  good-morning." 

Linforth  made  no  answer  to  the  gibe.  He  passed 
out  into  the  courtyard,  and  from  the  courtyard  through 
the  archway  into  the  grain-market.  Opposite  to  him 
at  the  end  of  the  street,  a  grass  hill,  with  the  chalk 
showing  at  one  bare  spot  on  the  side  of  it,  ridged  up 
against  the  sky  curiously  like  a  fragment  of  the  Sussex 
Downs.  Linforth  wondered  whether  Shere  Ali  had 
ever  noticed  the  resemblance,  and  whether  some  recol- 
lection of  the  summer  which  he  had  spent  at  Poynings 
had  ever  struck  poignantly  home  as  he  had  stood  upon 
these  steps.  Or  were  all  these  memories  quite  dead 
within  his  breast? 

In  one  respect  Shere  Ali  was  wrong.  The  Road 
would  go  on — now.  Linforth  had  done  his  best  to 
hinder  it,  as  Ralston  had  bidden  him  to  do,  but  he 
had  failed,  and  the  Road  would  go  on  to  the  foot  of 
the  Hindu  Kush.  Old  Andrew  Linforth's  words  came 
back  to  his  mind: 

"Governments  will  try  to  stop  it;  but  the  power  of 
the  Road  will  be  greater  than  the  power  of  any  Gov- 
ernment. It  will  wind  through  valleys  so  deep  that 
the  day's  sunshine  is  gone  within  the  hour.  It  will  be 
carried  in  galleries  along  the  faces  of  the  mountains, 
and  for  eight  months  of  the  year  sections  of  it  will  be 
buried  deep  in  snow.     Yet  it  will  be  finished." 

How   rightly    Andrew    Linforth   had   judged!     But 

313 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Dick  for  once  felt  no  joy  in  the  accuracy  of  the  old 
man's  forecast.  He  walked  back  through  the  city 
silent  and  with  a  heavy  heart.  He  had  counted  more 
than  he  had  thought  upon  Shere  All's  co-operation. 
His  friendship  for  Shere  Ali  had  grown  into  a  greater 
and  a  deeper  force  than  he  had  ever  imagined  it  until 
this  moment  to  be.  He  stopped  with  a  sense  of  weari- 
ness and  disillusionment,  and  then  walked  on  again. 
The  Road  would  never  again  be  quite  the  bright,  in- 
spiring thing  which  it  had  been.  The  dream  had  a 
shadow  upon  it.  In  the  Eton  and  Oxford  days  he  had 
given  and  given  and  given  so  much  of  himself  to  Shere 
Ali  that  he  could  not  now  lightly  and  easily  lose  him 
altogether  out  of  his  life.  Yet  he  must  so  lose  him, 
and  even  then  that  was  not  all  the  truth.  For  they 
would  be  enemies,  Shere  Ali  would  be  ruined  and  cast 
out,  and  his  ruin  would  be  the  opportunity  of  the  Road. 

He  turned  quickly  to  his  companion. 

''What  was  it  that  the  Prince  said,"  he  asked,  "when 
the  first  of  those  water-carriers  came  down  the  steps 
and  did  not  slip  ?  He  beat  his  hands  upon  the  balus- 
trade of  the  balcony  and  cried  out  some  words.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  his  companion  warned  him  of  your 
presence,  and  that  he  stopped  with  the  sentence  half 
spoken." 

"That  is  the  truth,"  Linforth's  guide  replied.  "The 
Prince  cried  out  in  anger,  'How  long  must  we  wait?'" 

Linforth  nodded  his  head. 

314 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  PITCHER 

"  He  looked  for  the  pitcher  to  fall  and  it  did  not  fall," 
he  said.  "The  breaking  of  the  pitcher  was  to  be  a 
sign." 

"And  the  sign  was  given.  Do  not  forget  that,  your 
Excellency.     The  sign  was  given." 

But  what  did  the  sign  portend  ?  Linforth  puzzled 
his  brains  vainly  over  that  problem.  He  had  not  the 
knowledge  by  which  a  man  might  cipher  out  the  in- 
trigues of  the  hill-folk  beyond  the  Frontier.  Did  the 
breaking  of  the  pitcher  mean  that  some  definite  thing 
had  been  done  in  Chiltistan,  some  breaking  of  the 
British  power?  They  might  look  upon  the  Raj  as  a 
heavy  burden  on  their  heads,  like  an  earthen  pitcher 
and  as  easily  broken.     Ralston  would  know. 

"You  must  travel  back  to  Peshawur  to-night,"  said 
Linforth.  "Go  straight  to  his  Excellency  the  Chief 
Commissioner  and  tell  him  all  that  you  saw  upon  the 
balcony  and  all  that  you  heard.  If  any  man  can  inter- 
pret it,  it  will  be  he.  Meanwhile,  show  me  where  the 
Prince  Shere  Ali  lodges  in  Ajmere." 

The  policeman  led  Linforth  to  a  tall  house  which 
closed  in  at  one  end  a  short  and  narrow  street. 

"  It  is  here,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,"  said  Linforth,  "I  will  seek  out  the 
Prince  again.  I  will  stay  in  Ajmere  and  try  by  some 
way  or  another  to  have  talk  with  him." 

But  again  Linforth  was  to  fail.  He  stayed  for  some 
days  in  Ajmere,  but  could  never  gain  admittance  to 

315 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  house.  He  was  put  off  with  the  poUtest  of  excuses, 
dehvered  with  every  appearance  of  deep  regret.  Now 
his  Highness  was  unwell  and  could  see  no  one  but  his 
physician.  At  another  time  he  was  better — so  much 
better,  indeed,  that  he  w^as  giving  thanks  to  Allah  for 
the  restoration  of  his  health  in  the  Mosque  of  Shah 
Jehan.  Linforth  could  not  reach  him,  nor  did  he  ever 
see  him  in  the  streets  of  Ajmere. 

He  stayed  for  a  week,  and  then  coming  to  the  house 
one  morning  he  found  it  shuttered.  He  knocked  upon 
the  door,  but  no  one  answered  his  summons;  all  the 
reply  he  got  was  the  melancholy  echo  of  an  empty 
house. 

A  Babu  from  the  Customs  Office,  who  was  passing  at 
the  moment,  stopped  and  volunteered  information. 

"There  is  no  one  there.  Mister,"  he  said  gravely. 
"All  have  skedaddled  to  other  places." 

"The  Prince  Shere  Ali,  too?"  asked  Linforth. 

The  Babu  laughed  contemptuously  at  the  title. 

"Oho,  the  Prince!  The  Prince  went  away  a  week 
ago." 

Linforth  turned  in  surprise. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked. 

The  Babu  told  him  the  very  day  on  which  Shere  Ali 
had  gone  from  Ajmere.  It  was  on  the  day  when  the 
pitcher  had  fallen  on  the  steps  which  led  down  to  the 
well.  Linforth  had  been  tricked  by  the  smiling  courtier 
like  any  schoolboy. 

316 


THE   BREAKING  OF  THE   PITCHER 

"Whither  did  the  Prince  go?" 

The  Babu  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

''How  should  I  know?  They  are  not  of  my  people, 
these  poor  ignorant  hill-folk." 

He  went  on  his  way.  Linforth  was  left  with  the 
assurance  that  now,  indeed,  he  had  really  failed.  He 
took  the  train  that  night  back  to  Peshawur. 


317 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AN  ARRESTED   CONFESSION 

Linforth  related  the  history  of  his  failure  to  Ralston 
in  the  office  at  Peshawur. 

"Shere  Ali  went  away  on  the  day  the  pitcher  was 
broken,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the  breaking  of  the  pitcher 
which  gave  him  the  notice  to  go;   I  am  sure  of  it.     If 

one  only  knew  what  message  was  conveyed "  and 

Ralston  handed  to  him  a  letter. 

The  letter  had  been  sent  by  the  Resident  at  Kohara 
and  had  only  this  day  reached  Peshawur.  Linforth 
took  it  and  read  it  through.  It  announced  that  the 
son  of  Abdulla  Mahommed  had  been  murdered. 

"You  see?"  said  Ralston.  "He  was  shot  in  the 
back  by  one  of  his  attendants  when  he  was  out  after 
Markhor.  He  was  the  leader  of  the  rival  faction,  and 
was  bidding  for  the  throne  against  Shere  Ali.  His 
murder  clears  the  way.  I  have  no  doubt  your  friend  is 
over  the  Lowari  Pass  by  this  time.  There  will  be 
trouble  in  Chiltistan.  I  would  have  stopped  Shere  Ali 
on  his  way  up  had  I  known." 

"But  you  don't  think  Shere  Ali  had  this  man  mur- 
dered!" cried  Linforth. 

Ralston  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

318 


AN  AllRESTED  CONFESSION 

"  Why  not  ?  What  else  was  he  waiting  for  from  ten 
to  eleven  in  the  balcony  above  the  well,  except  just  for 
this  news?" 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  went  on  again  in  a 
voice  which  was  very  grave. 

"That  seems  to  you  horrible.  I  am  very  much 
afraid  that  another  thing,  another  murder  much  more 
horrible,  will  be  announced  down  to  me  in  the  next  few 
days.  The  son  of  Abdulla  Mahommed  stood  in  Shere 
All's  way  a  week  ago  and  he  is  gone.  But  the  way  is 
still  not  clear.     There's  still  another  in  his  path." 

Linforth  interpreted  the  words  according  to  the 
gravity  with  which  they  were  uttered. 

"His  father!"  he  said,  and  Ralston  nodded  his 
head. 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  cried.  "We  can  threaten — 
but  what  is  the  use  of  threatening  without  troops? 
And  we  mayn't  use  troops.  Chiltistan  is  an  indepen- 
dent kingdom.  We  can  advise,  but  we  can't  force  them 
to  follow  our  advice.  We  accept  the  status  quo.  That's 
the  policy.  So  long  as  Chiltistan  keeps  the  peace  with 
us  we  accept  Chiltistan  as  it  is  and  as  it  may  be.  We 
can  protect  if  our  protection  is  asked.  But  our  pro- 
tection has  not  been  asked.  Whv  has  Shere  Ali  fled 
SO  quickly  back  to  his  country?  Tell  me  that  if  you 
can." 

None  the  less,  however,  Ralston  telegraphed  at 
once  to  the  authorities  at  Lahore.     Linforth,  though  he 

319 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

had  failed  to  renew  his  old  comradeship  with  Shere  Ali, 
had  not  altogether  failed.  He  had  brought  back  news 
which  Ralston  counted  as  of  great  importance.  He 
had  linked  up  the  murder  in  Chiltistan  with  the  in- 
trigues of  Shere  Ali.  That  the  glare  w^as  rapidly  broad- 
ening over  that  country  of  hills  and  orchards  Ralston 
was  very  well  aware.  But  it  was  evident  now  that  at 
any  moment  the  eruption  might  take  place,  and  fire 
pour  down  the  hills.  In  these  terms  he  telegraphed  to 
Lahore.  Quietly  and  quickly,  once  more  after  twenty- 
five  years,  troops  were  being  concentrated  at  Now- 
shera  for  a  rush  over  the  passes  into  Chiltistan.  But 
even  so  Ralston  was  urgent  that  the  concentration 
should  be  hurried. 

He  sent  a  letter  in  cipher  to  the  Resident  at  Kohara, 
bidding  him  to  expect  Shere  Ali,  and  with  Shere  Ali 
the  beginning  of  the  trouble. 

He  could  do  no  more  for  the  moment.  So  far  as  he 
could  see  he  had  taken  all  the  precautions  which  were 
possible.  But  that  night  an  event  occurred  in  his  own 
house  which  led  him  to  believe  that  he  had  not  under- 
stood the  whole  extent  of  the  danger. 

It  was  Mrs.  Oliver  who  first  aroused  his  suspicions. 
The  four  of  them — Ralston  and  his  sister,  Linforth  and 
Violet  Oliver  were  sitting  quietly  at  dinner  when  Violet 
suddenly  said: 

"It's  a  strange  thing.  Of  course  there's  nothing 
really  in  it,  and  I  am  not  at  all  frightened,  but  the  last 

320 


AN  ARRESTED   CONFESSION 

two  nights,  on  going  to  bed,  I  have  found  that  one  of 
my  windows  was  no  longer  bolted." 

Linforth  looked  up  in  alarm.  Ralston's  face,  how- 
ever, did  not  change. 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  was  bolted  before?" 

"Yes,  quite  sure,"  said  Violet.  "The  room  is  on 
the  ground  floor,  and  outside  one  of  the  windows  a 
flight  of  steps  leads  down  from  the  verandah  to  the 
ground.  So  I  have  always  taken  care  to  bolt  them 
myself." 

"When?"  asked  Ralston. 

"After  dressing  for  dinner,"  she  replied.  "It  is  the 
last  thing  I  do  before  leaving  the  room." 

Ralston  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  though  a  mo- 
mentary anxiety  were  quite  relieved. 

"It  is  one  of  the  servants,  no  doubt,"  he  said.  "I 
will  speak  about  it  afterwards";  and  for  the  moment 
the  matter  dropped. 

But  Ralston  returned  to  the  subject  before  dinner 
was  finished. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be  uneasy,  Mrs.  Oliver," 
he  said.  "The  house  is  guarded  by  sentinels,  as  no 
doubt  you  know.  They  are  native  levies,  of  course, 
but  they  are  quite  reliable";  and  in  this  he  was  quite 
sincere.  So  long  as  they  wore  the  uniform  they  would 
be  loyal.  The  time  might  come  w^hen  they  would  ask 
to  be  allowed  to  go  home.  That  permission  would  be 
granted,  and  it  was  possible  that  they  would  be  found 

321 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

in  arms  against  the  loyal  troops  immediately  after- 
wards. But  they  would  ask  to  be  allowed  to  go 
first. 

"Still,"  he  resumed,  "if  you  carry  valuable  jewellery 
about  with  you,  it  would  be  as  well,  I  think,  if  you  locked 
it  up." 

"  I  have  very  little  jewellery,  and  that  not  valuable," 
said  Violet,  and  suddenly  her  face  flushed  and  she 
looked  across  the  table  at  Linforth  with  a  smile.  The 
smile  was  returned,  and  a  minute  later  the  ladies 
rose. 

The  two  men  were  left  alone  to  smoke. 

"You  know  Mrs.  Oliver  better  than  I  do,"  said 
Ralston.  "I  will  tell  you  frankly  what  I  think.  It 
may  be  a  mere  nothing.  There  may  be  no  cause  for 
anxiety  at  all.  In  any  case  anxiety  is  not  the  word" 
he  corrected  himself,  and  went  on.  "There  is  a  per- 
fectly natural  explanation.  The  servants  may  have 
opened  the  window  to  air  the  room  when  they  were 
preparing  it  for  the  night,  and  may  easily  have  for- 
gotten to  latch  the  bolt  afterwards." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  the  natural  explanation," 
said  Linforth,  as  he  lit  a  cigar.  "  It  is  hard  to  conceive 
any  other." 

"Theft,"  replied  Ralston,  "is  the  other  explanation. 
What  I  said  about  the  levies  is  true.  I  can  rely  on 
them.  But  the  servants — that  is  perhaps  a  different 
question.     They  are  Mahommedans  all  of  them,  and 

322 


AN  ARRESTED   CONFESSION 

we  hear  a  good  deal  about  the  loyalty  of  Mahom- 
medans,  don't  we?"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "They 
wear,  if  not  a  uniform,  a  livery.  All  these  things  are 
true.  But  I  tell  you  this,  which  is  no  less  true.  Not 
one  of  those  Mahommedan  servants  would  die  wearing 
the  livery,  acknowledging  their  service.  Every  one  of 
them,  if  he  fell  ill,  if  he  thought  that  he  was  going  to  die, 
would  leave  my  service  to-morrow.  So  I  don't  count 
on  them  so  much.  However,  I  will  make  some  in- 
quiries, and  to-morrow  we  will  move  Mrs.  Oliver  to 
another  room." 

He  went  about  the  business  forthwith,  and  cross- 
examined  his  servants  one  after  another.  But  he  ob- 
tained no  admission  from  any  one  of  them.  No  one 
had  touched  the  window.  Was  a  single  thing  missing 
of  all  that  the  honourable  lady  possessed  ?  On  their 
lives,  no! 

Meanwhile  Linforth  sought  out  Violet  Oliver  in  the 
drawing-room.  He  found  her  alone,  and  she  came 
eagerly  towards  him  and  took  his  hands. 

"Oh,  Dick,"  she  said,  "I  am  glad  you  have  come 
back.     I  am  nervous." 

"There's  no  need,"  said  Dick  with  a  laugh.  "Let 
us  go  out." 

He  opened  the  window,  but  Violet  drew  back. 

"No,  let  us  stay  here,"  she  said,  and  passing  her 
arm  through  his  she  stared  for  a  few  moments  with  a 
singular  intentness  into  the  darkness  of  the  garden. 

323 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Did  you  see  anything?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  replied,  and  he  felt  the  tension  of  her 
body  relax.  "No,  there's  nothing.  And  since  you 
have  come  back,  Dick,  I  am  no  longer  afraid."  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  tightened  her  clasp 
upon  his  arm  with  a  pretty  air  of  ownership.  "My 
Dick!"  she  said,  and  laughed. 

The  door-handle  rattled,  and  Violet  proved  that  she 
had  lost  her  fear. 

"That's  Miss  Ralston,"  she  said.  "Let  us  go  out," 
and  she  slipped  out  of  the  window  quickly.  As  quickly 
Linforth  followed  her.  She  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"Dick,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  and  she  caught  him 
close  to  her. 

"Violet." 

He  looked  up  to  the  dark,  clear,  starlit  sky  and  down 
to  the  sweet  and  gentle  face  held  up  towards  his.  That 
night  and  in  this  Indian  garden,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  faith  was  proven  and  made  good.  With  the  sense 
of  failure  heavy  upon  his  soul,  he  yet  found  here  a 
woman  whose  trust  was  not  diminished  by  any  failure, 
who  still  looked  to  him  with  confidence  and  drew  com- 
fort and  strength  from  his  presence,  even  as  he  did 
from  hers.  Alone  in  the  drawing-room  she  had  been 
afraid;  outside  here  in  the  garden  she  had  no  fear, 
and  no  room  in  her  mind  for  any  thought  of  fear. 

"When   you   spoke   about   your   window   to-night, 

324 


AN  ARRESTED   CONFESSION 

Violet/*  he  said  gently,  "although  I  was  alarmed  for 
you,  although  I  was  troubled  that  you  should  have 
cause  for  alarm " 

"I  saw  that,"  said  Violet  with  a  smile. 

"Yet  I  never  spoke." 

"  Your  eyes,  your  face  spoke.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  watch 
you,"  and  she  drew  in  a  breath.  "I  am  a  little  afraid 
of  you."  She  did  not  laugh.  There  was  nothing 
provocative  in  her  accent.  She  spoke  with  simplicity 
and  truth,  now  as  often,  what  was  set  down  to  her  for 
a  coquetry  by  those  who  disliked  her.  Linforth  was  in 
no  doubt,  however.  Mistake  her  as  he  did,  he  judged 
her  in  this  respect  more  truly  than  the  w^orldly-wise. 
She  had  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  a  great  fear  of  her 
lover,  a  fear  that  she  might  lose  him,  a  fear  that  he 
might  hold  her  in  scorn,  if  he  knew  her  only  half  as 
well  as  she  knew  herself. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  said, 
quietly.     "There  is  no  reason  for  it." 

"You  are  hard  to  others  if  they  come  in  your  way," 
she  replied,  and  Linforth  stopped.  Yes,  that  was 
true.  There  was  his  mother  in  the  house  under  the 
Sussex  Downs.  He  had  got  his  way.  He  was  on  the 
Frontier.  The  Road  now  would  surely  go  on.  It 
would  be  a  strange  thing  if  he  did  not  manage  to  get 
some  portion  of  that  work  entrusted  to  his  hands.  He 
had  got  his  way,  but  he  had  been  hard,  undoubtedly. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  he  answered.     "But  I  have  had 

325 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

my  lesson.     You  need  not  fear  that  I  shall  be  anything 
but  very  gentle  towards  you." 

"In  your  thoughts  ?"  she  asked  quickly.  "That  you 
will  be  gentle  in  word  and  in  deed — ^yes,  of  that  I  am 
sure.  But  will  you  think  gently  of  me — always  ?  That 
is  a  different  thing." 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh. 

But  Violet  Oliver  was  in  no  mood  lightly  to  be  put  off. 

"Promise  me  that!"  she  cried  in  a  low  and  most 
passionate  voice.  Her  lips  irembled  as  she  pleaded; 
her  dark  eyes  besought  him,  shining  starrily.  "Oh, 
promise  that  you  will  think  of  me  gently — that  if  ever 
you  are  inclined  to  be  hard  and  to  judge  me  harshly, 
you  will  remember  these  two  nights  in  the  dark  garden 
at  Peshawur." 

"I  shall  not  forget  them,"  said  Linforth,  and  there 
was  no  longer  any  levity  in  his  tones.  He  spoke  gravely, 
and  more  than  gravely.  There  was  a  note  of  anxiety, 
as  though  he  w^ere  troubled. 

"I  promise,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Violet  simply;  "for  I  know  that 
you  will  keep  the  promise." 

"Yes,  but  you  speak" — and  the  note  of  trouble  was 
still  more  audible  in  Linforth's  voice — "you  speak  as 
if  you  and  I  were  going  to  part  to-morrow  morning  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"  No,"  Violet  cried  quickly  and  rather  sharply.  Then 
she  moved  on  a  step  or  two. 

326 


AN  ARRESTED  CONFESSION 

"I  Interrupted  you/'  she  said.  "You  were  saying 
that  when  I  spoke  about  my  window,  although  you 
were  troubled  on  my  account " 

"  I  felt  at  the  same  time  some  relief,"  Linforth  con- 
tinued. 

Relief?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  for  on  my  return  from  Ajmere  this  morning 
I  noticed  a  change  in  you."  He  felt  at  once  Violet's 
hand  shake  upon  his  arm  as  she  started;  but  she  did 
not  interrupt  him  by  a  word. 

"I  noticed  it  at  once  when  we  met  for  the  first  time 
since  we  had  talked  together  in  the  garden,  for  the 
first  time  since  your  hands  had  lain  in  mine  and 
your  lips  touched  mine.  And  afterwards  it  was  still 
there." 

"What  change?"  Violet  asked.  But  she  asked  the 
question  in  a  stifled  voice  and  with  her  face  averted 
from  him. 

"There  was  a  constraint,  an  embarrassment,"  he 
said.  "How  can  I  explain  it?  I  felt  it  rather  than 
noticed  it  by  visible  signs.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you 
avoided  being  alone  with  me.  I  had  a  dread  that  you 
regretted  the  evening  in  the  garden,  that  you  were  sorry 
we  had  agreed  to  live  our  lives  together." 

Violet  did  not  protest.  She  did  not  turn  to  him  with 
any  denial  in  her  eyes.  She  walked  on  by  his  side  with 
her  face  still  turned  away  from  his,  and  for  a  little  while 
she  walked  in  silence.     Then,  as  if  compelled,  she  sud- 

327 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

denly  stopped  and  turned.     She  spoke,  too,  as  If  com- 
pelled, with  a  kind  of  desperation  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  you  were  right,"  she  cried.  ''Oh,  Dick,  you 
were  right.  There  was  constraint,  there  was  embar- 
rassment.    I  will  tell  you  the  reason — now." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Dick  with  a  smile. 

Violet  stared  at  him  for  a  moment.  She  perceived 
his  contentment.  He  was  now  quite  unharassed  by 
fear.  There  was  no  disappointment,  no  anger  against 
her.     She  shook  her  head  and  said  slowly: 

"You  can't  know  it." 

"I  do." 

"Tell  me  the  reason  then." 

"You  were  frightened  by  this  business  of  the  window." 

Violet  made  a  movement.  She  was  in  the  mood  to 
contradict  him.  But  he  went  on,  and  so  the  mood 
passed. 

"It  was  only  natural.  Here  were  you  in  a  frontier 
town,  a  wild  town  on  the  borders  of  a  wild  country.  A 
window  bolted  at  dinner-time  and  unlocked  at  bed- 
time— it  was  easy  to  find  something  sinister  in  that. 
You  did  not  like  to  speak  of  it,  lest  it  should  trouble 
your  hosts.  Yet  it  weighed  on  you.  It  occupied  your 
thoughts." 

"And  to  that  you  put  down  my  embarrassment?" 
she  asked  quietly.  They  had  come  again  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  drawing-room. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered. 

328 


AN  ARRESTED   CONFESSION 

She  looked  at  him  strangely  for  a  few  moments. 
But  the  compulsion  which  she  had  felt  upon  her  a 
moment  ago  to  speak  was  gone.  She  no  longer  sought 
to  contradict  him.  Without  a  word  she  slipped  into 
the  drawing-room. 


329 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


THE  THIEF 


Violet  Oliver  was  harassed  that  night  as  she  had 
never  before  been  harassed  at  any  moment  of  her  easy 
life.  She  fled  to  her  room.  She  stood  in  front  of  her 
mirror  gazing  helplessly  at  the  reflection  of  her  troubled 
face. 

"What  shall  I  do?''  she  cried  piteously.  "What 
shall  I  do?" 

And  it  was  not  until  some  minutes  had  passed  that 
she  gave  a  thought  to  whether  her  window  on  this 
night  was  bolted  or  not. 

She  moved  quickly  across  the  room  and  drew  the 
curtains  apart.  This  time  the  bolt  was  shot.  But  she 
did  not  turn  back  to  her  room.  She  let  the  curtains 
fall  behind  her  and  leaned  her  forehead  against  the 
glass.  There  was  a  moon  to-night,  and  the  quiet 
garden  stretched  in  front  of  her  a  place  of  black  shadows 
and  white  light.  Whether  a  thief  lurked  in  those 
shadows  and  watched  from  them  she  did  not  now 
consider.  The  rattle  of  a  rifle  from  a  sentry  near  at 
hand  gave  her  confidence;  and  all  her  trouble  lay  in 
the  house  behind  her. 

She  opened  her  window  and  stepped  out.     "I  tried 

330 


THE  THIEF 

to  speak,  but  he  would  not  listen.  Oh,  why  did  I  ever 
come  here?"  she  cried.  "It  would  have  been  so  easy 
not  to  have  come." 

But  even  while  she  cried  out  her  regrets,  they  were 
not  all  the  truth.  There  was  still  alive  within  her  the 
longing  to  follow  the  difficult  way — the  way  of  fire  and 
stones,  as  it  would  be  for  her — if  only  she  could!  She 
had  made  a  beginning  that  night.  Yes,  she  had  made 
a  beginning  though  nothing  had  come  of  it.  That  was 
not  her  fault,  she  assured  herself.  She  had  tried  to 
speak.  But  could  she  keep  it  up?  She  turned  and 
twisted;  she  was  caught  in  a  trap.  Passion  had 
trapped  her  unawares. 

She  went  back  to  the  room  and  bolted  the  window. 
Then  again  she  stood  in  front  of  her  mirror  and  gazed 
at  herself  in  thought. 

Suddenly  her  face  changed.  She  looked  up;  an  idea 
took  shape  in  her  mind.  "Theft,"  Ralston  had  said. 
Thus  had  he  explained  the  unbolted  window.  She 
must  lock  up  what  jewels  she  had.  She  must  be  sure 
to  do  that.  Violet  Oliver  looked  towards  the  window 
and  shivered.  It  was  very  silent  in  the  room.  Fear 
seized  hold  of  her.  It  was  a  big  room,  and  furtively 
she  peered  into  the  corners  lest  already  hidden  behind 
some  curtain  the  thief  should  be  there. 

But  always  her  eyes  returned  to  the  window.  If  she 
only  dared!  She  ran  to  her  trunks.  From  one  of 
them  she  took  out  from  its  deep  hiding-place  a  small 

331 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

jewel-case,  a  jewel-case  very  like  to  that  one  which  a  few 
months  ago  she  had  sealed  up  in  her  tent  and  ad- 
dressed to  Kohara.  She  left  it  on  her  dressing-table. 
She  did  not  open  it.  Then  she  looked  about  her  again. 
It  would  be  the  easy  way — if  only  she  dared !  It  would 
be  an  easier  way  than  trying  again  to  tell  her  lover  what 
she  would  have  told  him  to-night,  had  he  only  been 
willing  to  listen. 

She  stood  and  listened,  with  parted  lips.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  even  in  this  lighted  room  people,  unseen 
people,  breathed  about  her.  Then,  with  a  little  sob  in 
her  throat,  she  ran  to  the  window  and  shot  back  the 
bolt.  She  undressed  hurriedly,  placed  a  candle  by  her 
bedside  and  turned  out  the  electric  lights.  As  soon  as 
she  was  in  bed  she  blew  out  the  candle.  She  lay  in 
the  darkness,  shivering  with  fear,  regretting  what  she 
had  done.  Every  now  and  then  a  board  cracked  in 
the  corridor  outside  the  room,  as  though  beneath  a 
stealthy  footstep.  And  once  inside  the  room  the  door 
of  a  wardrobe  sprang  open.  She  would  have  cried  out, 
but  terror  paralysed  her  throat;  and  the  next  moment 
she  heard  the  tread  of  the  sentry  outside  her  window. 
The  sound  reassured  her.  There  was  safety  in  the 
heavy  regularity  of  the  steps.  It  w^as  a  soldier  who 
was  passing,  a  drilled,  trustworthy  soldier.  "Trust- 
worthy" was  the  word  which  the  Commissioner  had 
used.  And  lulled  by  the  soldier's  presence  in  the  garden 
Violet  Oliver  fell  asleep. 

332 


THE  THIEF 

But  she  waked  before  dawn.  The  room  was  still  in 
darkness.  The  moon  had  sunk.  Not  a  ray  of  light 
penetrated  from  behind  the  curtains.  She  lay  for  a 
little  while  in  bed,  listening,  wondering  whether  that 
window  had  been  opened.  A  queer  longing  came  upon 
her — a  longing  to  thrust  back  the  curtains,  so  that — if 
anything  happened — she  might  see.  That  would  be 
better  than  lying  here  in  the  dark,  knowing  nothing, 
seeing  nothing,  fearing  everything.  If  she  pulled  back 
the  curtains,  there  would  be  a  panel  of  dim  light 
visible,  however  dark  the  night. 

The  longing  became  a  necessity.  She  could  not  lie 
there.  She  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  hurried  across 
towards  the  window.  She  had  not  stopped  to  light  her 
candle  and  she  held  her  hands  outstretched  in  front  of 
her.  Suddenly,  as  she  was  half-way  across  the  room, 
her  hands  touched  something  soft. 

She  drew  them  back  with  a  gasp  of  fright  and  stood 
stone-still,  stone-cold.  She  had  touched  a  human  face. 
Already  the  thief  was  in  the  room.  She  stood  without 
a  cry,  without  a  movement,  while  her  heart  leaped  and 
fluttered  within  her  bosom.  She  knew  in  that  moment 
the  extremity  of  mortal  fear. 

A  loud  scratch  sounded  sharply  in  the  room.  A 
match  spurted  into  flame,  and  above  the  match  there 
sprang  into  view,  framed  in  the  blackness  of  the 
room,  a  wild  and  menacing  dark  face.  The  eyes  glit- 
tered at  her,  and  suddenly  a  hand   was   raised  as   if 

333 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

to  strike.     And  at  the  gesture  Violet  Oliver  found  her 
voice. 

She  screamed,  a  loud  shrill  scream  of  terror,  and  even 
as  she  screamed,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  terror,  she 
saw  that  the  hand  was  lowered,  and  that  the  threaten- 
ing face  smiled.  Then  the  match  went  out  and  dark- 
ness cloaked  her  and  cloaked  the  thief  again.  She 
heard  a  quick  stealthy  movement,  and  once  more  her 
scream  rang  out.  It  seemed  to  her  ages  before  any 
answer  came,  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  hurrying 
footsteps  in  the  corridors.  There  was  a  loud  rapping 
upon  her  door.  She  ran  to  it.  She  heard  Ralston's 
voice. 

"What  is  it?  Open!  Open!"  and  then  in  the  gar- 
den the  report  of  a  rifle  rang  loud. 

She  turned  up  the  lights,  flung  a  dressing-gow^n  about 
her  shoulders  and  opened  the  door.  Ralston  was  in  the 
passage,  behind  him  she  saw  lights  strangely  wavering 
and  other  faces.  These  too  wavered  strangely.  From 
very  far  away,  she  heard  Ralston's  voice  once  more. 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

And  then  she  fell  forward  against  him  and  sank  in  a 
swoon  upon  the  floor. 

Ralston  lifted  her  on  to  her  bed  and  summoned  her 
maid.  He  went  out  of  the  house  and  made  inquiries 
of  the  guard.  The  sentry's  story  was  explicit  and  not 
to  be  shaken  by  any  cross-examination.  He  had 
patrolled  that  side  of  the  house  in  which  Mrs.  Oliver's 

334 


THE  THIEF 

room  lay,  all  night.  He  had  seen  nothing.  At  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning  the  moon  sank  and  the  night 
became  very  dark.  It  was  about  three  when  a  few 
minutes  after  passing  beneath  the  verandah,  and  just 
as  he  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  house,  he  heard  a 
shrill  scream  from  Mrs.  Oliver's  room.  He  ran  back 
at  once,  and  as  he  ran  he  heard  a  second  scream.  He 
saw  no  one,  but  he  heard  a  rustling  and  cracking  in  the 
bushes  as  though  a  fugitive  plunged  through.  He  fired 
in  the  direction  of  the  noise  and  then  ran  with  all  speed 
to  the  spot.  He  found  no  one,  but  the  bushes  were 
broken. 

Ralston  went  back  into  the  house  and  knocked  at 
Mrs.  Oliver's  door.     The  maid  opened  it. 

*'How  is  INIrs.  Oliver?"  he  asked,  and  he  heard 
Violet  herself  reply  faintly  from  the  room: 

"I  am  better,  thank  you.  I  was  a  little  frightened, 
that's  all." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Ralston,  and  he  spoke  again  to 
the  maid.  "Has  anything  gone?  Has  anything  been 
stolen?  There  was  a  jewel-case  upon  the  dressing- 
table.     I  saw  it." 

The  maid  looked  at  him  curiously,  before  she  an- 
swered.    "Nothing  has  been  touched." 

Then,  with  a  glance  towards  the  bed,  the  maid 
stooped  quickly  to  a  trunk  which  stood  against  the  wall 
close  by  the  door  and  then  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  her.     The  corridors  were  now 

335 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

lighted  up,  as  though  it  were  still  evening  and  the  house- 
hold had  not  yet  gone  to  bed.  Ralston  saw  that  the 
maid  held  a  bundle  in  her  hands. 

"I  do  not  think,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "that  the 
thief  came  to  steal  any  thing."  She  laid  some  emphasis 
upon  the  word. 

Ralston  took  the  bundle  from  her  hands  and  stared 
at  it. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  muttered.  He  was  astonished  and 
more  than  astonished.  There  was  something  of  horror 
in  his  low  exclamation.  He  looked  at  the  maid.  She 
was  a  woman  of  forty.  She  had  the  look  of  a  capable 
woman.     She  was  certainly  quite  self-possessed. 

"Does  your  mistress  know  of  this?"  he  asked. 

The  maid  shook  her  head. 

"No,  sir.  I  saw  it  upon  the  floor  before  she  came  to. 
I  hid  it  between  the  trunk  and  the  wall."  She  spoke 
with  an  ear  to  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  Violet  lay, 
and  in  a  low  voice. 

"Good!"  said  Ralston.  "You  had  better  tell  her 
nothing  of  it  for  the  present.  It  would  only  frighten 
her";   as  he  ended  he  heard  Violet  Oliver  call  out: 

"Adela!     Adela!" 

"  Mrs.  Oliver  wants  me,"  said  the  maid,  as  she  slipped 
back  into  the  bedroom. 

Ralston  walked  slowly  back  down  the  corridor  into 
the  great  hall.  He  was  carrying  the  bundle  in  his 
hands  and  his  face  was  very  grave.     He  saw  Dick 

336 


THE  THIEF 

Linforth  in  the  hall,  and  before  he  spoke  he  looked 
upwards  to  the  gallery  which  ran  round  it.  Even  when 
he  had  assured  himself  that  there  was  no  one  listening, 
he  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"Do  you  see  this,  Linforth?" 

He  held  out  the  bundle.  There  was  a  thick  cloth,  a 
sort  of  pad  of  cotton,  and  some  thin  strong  cords. 

"These  were  found  in  ]Mrs.  Oliver's  room." 

He  laid  the  things  upon  the  table  and  Linforth  turned 
them  over,  startled  as  Ralston  had  been. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"They  were  left  behind,"  said  Ralston. 

"By  the  thief?" 

"If  he  was  a  thief";   and  again  Linforth  said: 

"I  don't  understand." 

But  there  w^as  now  more  of  anger,  more  of  horror  in 
his  voice,  than  surprise;  and  as  he  spoke  he  took  up 
the  pad  of  cotton  wool. 

"You  do  understand,"  said  Ralston,  quietly. 

Linforth's  fingers  w^orked.  That  pad  of  cotton 
seemed  to  him  more  sinister  than  even  the  cords. 

"For  her!"  he  cried,  in  a  quiet  but  dangerous  voice. 
"For  Violet,"  and  at  that  moment  neither  noticed  his 
utterance  of  her  Christian  name.  "Let  me  only  find 
the  man  who  entered  her  room." 

Ralston  looked  steadily  at  Linforth. 

"Have  you  any  suspicion  as  to  who  the  man  is?"  he 
asked. 

337 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

There  was  a  momentary  silence  in  that  quiet  hall. 
Both  men  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"  It  can't  be,"  said  Linforth,  at  length.  But  he  spoke 
rather  to  himself  than  to  Ralston.     "It  can't  be." 

Ralston  did  not  press  the  question. 

"  It's  the  insolence  of  the  attempt  which  angers  me," 
he  said.  "We  must  wait  until  Mrs.  Oliver  can  tell  us 
what  happened,  what  she  saw\  Meanw^hile,  she  knows 
nothing  of  those  things.  There  is  no  need  that  she 
should  know." 

He  left  Linforth  standing  in  the  hall  and  went  up  the 
stairs.  When  he  reached  the  gallery,  he  leaned  over 
quietly  and  looked  down. 

Linforth  was  still  standing  by  the  table,  fingering  the 
cotton-pad. 

Ralston  heard  him  say  again  in  a  voice  which  was 
doubtful  now  rather  than  incredulous: 

"It  can't  be  he!     He  would  not  dare!" 

But  no  name  was  uttered. 


338 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MRS.    OLIVER   RIDES   THROUGH   PESHAWUR 

Violet  Oliver  told  her  story  later  during  that  day. 
But  there  was  a  certain  hesitation  in  her  manner  which 
puzzled  Ralston,  at  all  events,  amongst  her  audience. 

"When  you  went  to  your  room,"  he  asked,  "did  you 
find  the  window  again  unbolted  ?   " 

"No,"  she  replied.  "It  was  really  my  fault  last 
night.  I  felt  the  heat  oppressive.  I  opened  the  win- 
dow myself  and  went  out  on  to  the  verandah.  When  I 
came  back  I  think  that  I  did  not  bolt  it." 

"You  forgot?"  asked  Ralston  in  surprise. 

But  this  was  not  the  only  surprising  element  in  the 
story. 

"When  you  touched  the  man,  he  did  not  close  with 
you,  he  made  no  effort  to  silence  you,"  Ralston  said. 
"That  is  strange  enough.  But  that  he  should  strike  a 
match,  that  he  should  let  you  see  his  face  quite  clearly 
— that's  what  I  don't  understand.  It  looks,  Mrs. 
Oliver,  as  if  he  almost  wanted  you  to  recognise  him." 

Ralston  turned  in  his  chair  sharply  towards  her. 
"Did  you  recognise  him?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Violet  Oliver  replied.  "At  least  I  think  I 
did.     I  think  that  I  had  seen  him  before." 

339 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Here  at  all  events  it  was  clear  that  she  was  concealing 
nothing.  She  was  obviously  as  puzzled  as  Ralston  was 
himself. 

"Where  had  you  seen  him?"  he  asked,  and  the  an- 
swer increased  his  astonishment. 

"  In  Calcutta,"  she  answered.  "  It  was  the  same  man 
or  one  very  like  him.  I  saw  him  on  three  successive 
evenings  in  the  Maidan  when  I  was  driving  there." 

"In  Calcutta?"  cried  Ralston.  "Some  months  ago, 
then?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  come  to  notice  him  in  the  Maidan?" 
Mrs.  Oliver  shivered  slightly  as  she  answered: 

"  He  seemed  to  be  watching  me.  I  thought  so  at  the 
time,  it  made  me  uncomfortable.  Now  I  am  sure. 
He  was  watching  me,"  and  she  suddenly  came  forward 
a  step. 

"I  should  like  to  go  away  to-day  if  you  and  your 
sister  won't  mind,"  she  pleaded. 

Ralston's  forehead  clouded. 

"Of  course,  I  quite  understand,"  he  said,  "and  if 
you  wish  to  go  we  can't  prevent  you.  But  you  leave  us 
rather  helpless,  don't  you  ? — as  you  alone  can  identify 
the  man.     Besides,  you  leave  yourself  too  in  danger." 

"  But  I  shall  go  far  away,"  she  urged.  "  As  it  is  I  am 
going  back  to  England  in  a  month." 

"Yes,"  Ralston  objected.  "But  you  have  not  yet 
started,  and  if  the  man  followed  you  from  Calcutta  to 

340 


MRS.  OLIVER  RIDES  THROUGH  PESHAWUR 

Peshawur,  he  may  follow  you  from  Peshawur  to  Bom- 
bay." 

Mrs.  Oliver  drew  back  with  a  start  of  terror  and 
Ralston  instantly  took  back  his  words. 

"Of  course,  we  will  take  care  of  you  on  your  way 
south.  You  may  rely  on  that,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"  But  if  you  could  bring  yourself  to  stay  here  for  a  day 
or  two  I  should  be  much  obliged.  You  see,  it  is  im- 
possible to  fix  the  man's  identity  from  a  description, 
and  it  is  really  important  that  he  should  be  caught." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Violet  Oliver,  and  she 
reluctantly  consented  to  stay. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ralston,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  smile.  "There  is  one  more  thing  which  I  should 
like  you  to  do.  I  should  like  you  to  ride  out  with  me 
this  afternoon  through  Peshawur.  The  story  of  last 
night  will  already  be  known  in  the  bazaars.  Of  that 
you  may  be  very  sure.  And  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
if  you  were  seen  to  ride  through  the  city  quite  uncon- 
cerned." 

Violet  Oliver  drew  back  from  the  ordeal  which 
Ralston  so  calmly  proposed  to  her. 

"I  shall  be  with  you,"  he  said.  "There  will  be  no 
danger — or  at  all  events  no  danger  that  Englishwomen 
are  unprepared  to  face  in  this  country." 

The  appeal  to  her  courage  served  Ralston's  turn. 
Violet  raised  her  head  with  a  little  jerk  of  pride. 

"  Certainly  I  will  ride  with  you  this  afternoon  through 

341 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Peshawur,"  she  said;  and  she  went  out  of  the  room 
and  left  Ralston  alone. 

He  sat  at  his  desk  trying  to  puzzle  out  the  enigma  of 
the  night.  The  more  he  thought  upon  it,  the  further 
he  seemed  from  any  solution.  There  was  the  perplex- 
ing behaviour  of  Mrs.  Oliver  herself.  She  had  been 
troubled,  greatly  troubled,  to  find  her  window  un- 
bolted on  two  successive  nights  after  she  had  taken 
care  to  bolt  it.  Yet  on  the  third  night  she  actually  un- 
bolts it  herself  and  leaving  it  unbolted  puts  out  her  light 
and  goes  to  bed.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  should 
so  utterly  have  forgotten  her  fears.  But  still  more  be- 
wildering even  than  her  forgetfulness  was  the  conduct 
of  the  intruder. 

Upon  that  point  he  took  Linforth  into  his  counsels. 

"I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it,"  he  cried.  "Here 
the  fellow  is  in  the  dark  room  with  his  cords  and  the 
thick  cloth  and  the  pad.  Mrs.'  Oliver  touches  him. 
He  knows  that  his  presence  is  revealed  to  her.  She  is 
within  reach.  And  she  stands  paralysed  by  fear,  un- 
able to  cry  out.  Yet  he  does  nothing,  except  light  a 
match  and  give  her  a  chance  to  recognise  his  face.  He 
does  not  seize  her,  he  does  not  stifle  her  voice,  as  ho 
could  have  done — ^yes,  as  he  could  have  done,  before 
she  could  have  uttered  a  cry.  He  strikes  a  match  and 
shows  her  his  face." 

"So  that  he  might  see  hers,"  said  Linforth.  Ralston 
shook  his  head.     He  was  not  satisfied  with  that  ex- 

342 


MRS.  OLIVER  RIDES  THROUGH  PESHAWUR 

planation.  But  Linforth  had  no  other  to  offer.  "  Have 
you  any  clue  to  the  man  ?" 

"None/'  said  Ralston. 

He  rode  out  with  Mrs.  Oliver  that  afternoon  down 
from  his  house  to  the  Gate  of  the  City.  Two  men  of 
his  levies  rode  at  a  distance  of  twenty  paces  behind  them. 
But  these  were  his  invariable  escort.  He  took  no  un- 
usual precautions.  There  were  no  extra  police  in  the 
streets.  He  went  out  with  his  guest  at  his  side  for  an 
afternoon  ride  as  if  nothing  whatever  had  occurred. 
Mrs.  Oliver  played  her  part  well.  She  rode  with  her 
head  erect  and  her  eyes  glancing  boldly  over  the 
crowded  streets.  Curious  glances  were  directed  at  her, 
but  she  met  them  without  agitation.  Ralston  observed 
her  with  a  growing  admiration. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  warmly.  "I  know  this  can 
hardly  be  a  pleasant  experience  for  you.  But  it  is 
good  for  these  people  here  to  know  that  nothing  they 
can  do  will  make  any  difference — no  not  enough  to 
alter  the  mere  routine  of  our  lives.     Let  us  go  forward." 

They  turned  to  the  left  at  the  head  of  the  main 
thoroughfare,  and  passed  at  a  walk,  now  through  the 
open  spaces  where  the  booths  were  erected,  now  through 
winding  narrow  streets  between  high  houses.  Violet 
Oliver,  though  she  held  her  head  high  and  her  eyes 
were  steady,  rode  with  a  fluttering  heart.  In  front  of 
them,  about  them,  and  behind  them  the  crowd  of  people 
thronged,  tribesmen  from  the  hills,  Mohammedans  and 

343 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

Hindus  of  the  city;  from  the  upper  windows  the  law- 
yers and  merchants  looked  down  upon  them;  and 
Violet  held  all  of  them  in  horror. 

The  occurrence  of  last  night  had  inflicted  upon  her 
a  heavier  shock  than  either  Ralston  imagined  or  she 
herself  had  been  aware  until  she  had  ridden  into  the 
town.  The  dark  wild  face  suddenly  springing  into 
view  above  the  lighted  match  was  as  vivid  and  terrible 
to  her  still,  as  a  nightmare  to  a  child.  She  was  afraid 
that  at  any  moment  she  might  see  that  face  again  in  the 
throng  of  faces.  Her  heart  sickened  with  dread  at  the 
thought,  and  even  though  she  should  not  see  him,  at 
every  step  she  looked  upon  twenty  of  his  like — kinsmen, 
perhaps,  brothers  in  blood  and  race.  She  shrank  from 
them  in  repulsion  and  she  shrank  from  them  in  fear. 
Every  nerve  of  her  body  seemed  to  cry  out  against  the 
folly  of  this  ride. 

"  What  were  they  two  and  the  two  levies  behind  them 
against  the  throng?  Four  at  the  most  against  thou- 
sands at  the  least." 

She  touched  Ralston  timidly  on  the  arm. 

"  Might  we  go  home  now  ?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  which 
trembled;  and  he  looked  suddenly  and  anxiously  into 
her  face.  * 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  and  he  wheeled  his  horse  round, 
keeping  close  to  her  as  she  wheeled  hers. 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  took  on  an 
unusual  friendliness.     "We  have  not  far  to  go.     It 

344 


MRS.  OLIVER  RIDES  THROUGH  PESHAWUR 

was  brave  of  you  to  have  come,  and  I  am  very  grateful. 
We  ask  much  of  the  EngUshwomen  in  India,  and  be- 
cause they  never  fail  us,  we  are  apt  to  ask  too  much.  I 
asked  too  much  of  you."  Violet  responded  to  the  flick 
at  her  national  pride.  She  drew  herself  up  and  straight- 
ened her  back. 

"No,"  she  said,  and  she  actually  counterfeited  a 
smile.     "No.     It's  all  right." 

"I  asked  more  than  I  had  a  right  to  ask,"  he  con- 
tinued remorsefully.  "I  am  sorry.  I  have  lived  too 
much  amongst  men.  That's  my  trouble.  One  be- 
comes inconsiderate  to  women.  It's  ignorance,  not 
want  of  good-will.  Look!"  To  distract  her  thoughts 
he  began  to  point  her  out  houses  and  people  which  were 
of  interest. 

"  Do  you  see  that  sign  there,  *  Bahadur  Gobind,  Bar- 
rister-at-Law,  Cambridge  B.A.,'  on  the  first  floor  over 
the  cookshop?  Yes,  he  is  the  genuine  article.  He 
went  to  Cambridge  and  took  his  degree  and  here  he  is 
back  again.  Take  him  for  all  in  all,  he  is  the  most 
seditious  man  in  the  city.  Meanly  seditious.  It  only 
runs  to  writing  letters  over  a  pseudonym  in  the  native 
papers.  Now  look  up.  Do  you  see  that  very  re- 
spectable white-bearded  gentleman  x)n  the  balcony  of 
his  house  ?  Well,  his  daughter-in-law  disappeared  one 
day  when  her  husband  was  away  from  home — disap- 
peared altogether.  It  had  been  a  great  grief  to  the  old 
gentleman  that  she  had  borne  no  son  to  inherit  the 

345 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

family  fortune.  So  naturally  people  began  to  talk. 
She  was  found  subsequently  under  the  floor  of  the 
house,  and  it  cost  that  respectable  old  gentleman  twenty 
thousand  rupees  to  get  himself  acquitted." 

Ralston  pulled  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  realising  that 
this  was  not  the  most  appropriate  story  which  he  could 
have  told  to  a  lady  with  the  overstrained  nerves  of  Mrs. 
Oliver. 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  fresh  apology  upon  his  lips. 
But  the  apology  was  never  spoken. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Oliver?"  he  asked. 

She  had  not  heard  the  story  of  the  respectable  old 
gentleman.  That  was  clear.  They  were  riding 
through  an  open  oblong  space  of  ground  dotted  with 
trees.  There  were  shops  down  the  middle,  two  rows 
backing  upon  a  stream,  and  shops  again  at  the  sides. 
Mrs.  Oliver  was  gazing  with  a  concentrated  look  across 
the  space  and  the  people  who  crowded  it  towards  an 
opening  of  an  alley  between  two  houses.  But  fixed 
though  her  gaze  was,  there  was  no  longer  any  fear  in 
her  eyes.  Rather  they  expressed  a  keen  interest,  a 
strong  curiosity. 

Ralston's  eyes  follow^ed  the  direction  of  her  gaze.  At 
the  corner  of  the  alley  there  was  a  shop  wherein  a  man 
sat  rounding  a  stick  of  wood  with  a  primitive  lathe. 
He  made  the  lathe  revolve  by  working  a  stringed  bow 
with  his  right  hand,  while  his  left  hand  worked  the 
chisel  and  his  right  foot  directed  it.     His  limbs  were 

346 


MRS.  OLIVER  RIDES  THROUGH  PESHAWUR 

making  three  different  motions  with  an  absence  of 
effort  which  needed  much  practice,  and  for  a  moment 
Ralston  wondered  whether  it  was  the  ingenuity  of  the 
workman  which  had  attracted  her.  But  in  a  moment 
he  saw  that  he  was  wrong. 

There  were  two  men  standing  in  the  mouth  of  the 
alley,  both  dressed  in  white  from  head  to  foot.  One 
stood  a  little  behind  with  the  hood  of  his  cloak  drawn 
forward  over  his  head,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
cern his  face.  The  other  stood  forward,  a  tall  slim 
man  with  the  elegance  and  the  grace  of  youth.  It  was 
at  this  man  Violet  Oliver  was  looking. 

Ralston  looked  again  at  her,  and  as  he  looked  the 
colour  rose  into  her  cheeks;  there  came  a  look  of  sym- 
pathy, perhaps  of  pity,  into  her  eyes.  Almost  her  lips 
began  to  smile.  Ralston  turned  his  head  again  towards 
the  alley,  and  he  started  in  his  saddle.  The  young  man 
had  raised  his  head.  He  was  gazing  fixedly  towards 
them.  His  features  were  revealed  and  Ralston  knew 
them  well. 

He  turned  quickly  to  Mrs.  Oliver. 

"You  know  that  man?" 

The  colour  deepened  upon  her  face. 

"It  is  the  Prince  of  Chiltistan." 

"But  you  know  him?"  Ralston  insisted. 

"  I  have  met  him  in  I  ondon,"  said  Violet  Oliver. 

So  Shere  Ali  was  in  Peshawur,  when  he  should  have 
been  in  Chiltistan !     "  Why  ?  " 

347 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Ralston  put  the  question  to  himself  and  looked  to  his 
companion  for  the  answer.  The  colour  upon  her  face, 
the  interest,  the  sympathy  of  her  eyes  gave  him  the 
answer.  This  was  the  woman,  then,  whose  image 
stood  before  Shere  Ali's  memories  and  hindered  him 
from  marrying  one  of  his  own  race!  Just  with  that 
sympathy  and  that  keen  interest  does  a  woman  look 
upon  the  man  who  loves  her  and  whose  love  she  does 
not  return.  Moreover,  there  was  Linforth's  hesitation. 
Linforth  had  admitted  there  was  an  Englishwoman  for 
whom  Shere  Ali  cared,  had  admitted  it  reluctantly,  had 
extenuated  her  thoughtlessness,  had  pleaded  for  her. 
Oh,  without  a  doubt  Mrs.  Oliver  was  the  woman! 

There  flashed  before  Ralston's  eyes  the  picture  of 
Linforth  standing  in  the  hall,  turning  over  the  cords 
and  the  cotton  pad  and  the  thick  cloth.  Ralston  looked 
down  again  upon  him  from  the  gallery  and  heard  his 
voice,  saying  in  a  whisper: 

"It  can't  be  he!     It  can't  be  he!" 

What  would  Linforth  say  when  he  knew  that  Shere 
Ali  was  lurking  in  Peshawur? 

Ralston  was  still  gazing  at  Shere  Ali  when  the  man 
behind  the  Prince  made  a  movement.  He  flung  back 
the  hood  from  his  face,  and  disclosing  his  features  looked 
boldly  towards  the  riders. 

A  cry  rang  out  at  Ralston's  side,  a  woman's  cry.  He 
turned  in  his  saddle  and  saw  Violet  Oliver.  The 
colour  had  suddenly  fled  from  her  cheeks.     They  were 

348 


I\IRS.  OLIVER  RIDES  THROUGH  PESHAWUR 

blanched.  The  sympathy  had  gone  from  her  eyes,  and 
in  its  place,  stark  terror  looked  out  from  them.  She 
swayed  in  her  saddle. 

"Do  you  see  that  man  ?"  she  cried,  pointing  with  her 
hand.  "The  man  behind  the  Prince.  The  man  who 
has  thrown  back  his  cloak." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  him,"  answered  Ralston  impatiently. 

"It  was  he  who  crept  into  my  room  last  night." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Could  I  forget?  Could  I  forget?"  she  cried;  and 
at  that  moment,  the  man  touched  Shere  Ali  on  the 
sleeve,  and  they  both  fled  out  of  sight  into  the  alley. 

There  was  no  doubt  left  in  Ralston's  mind.  It  was 
Shere  Ali  who  had  planned  the  abduction  of  Mrs. 
Oliver.  It  was  his  companion  who  had  failed  to  carry 
it  out.     Ralston  turned  to  the  levies  behind  him. 

" Quick!  Into  that  valley!  Fetch  me  those  two  men 
who  were  standing  there!" 

The  two  levies  pressed  their  horses  through  the  crowd, 
but  the  alley  was  empty  when  they  came  to  it. 


349 


CHAPTER  XXX 


THE   NEEDED   IMPLEMENT 


Ralston  rode  home  with  an  uncomfortable  recollec- 
tion of  the  little  dinner-party  in  Calcutta  at  which  Hatch 
had  told  his  story  of  the  Englishwoman  in  Mecca. 
Had  that  story  fired  Shere  Ali  ?  The  time  for  questions 
had  passed ;  but  none  the  less  this  particular  one  would 
force  itself  into  the  front  of  his  mind. 

"I  would  have  done  better  never  to  have  meddled," 
he  said  to  himself  remorsefully — even  while  he  gave  his 
orders  for  the  apprehension  of  Shere  Ali  and  his  com- 
panion. For  he  did  not  allow  his  remorse  to  hamper 
his  action;  he  set  a  strong  guard  at  the  gates  of  the 
city,  and  gave  orders  that  within  the  gates  the  city 
should  be  methodically  searched  quarter  by  quarter. 

"I  want  them  both  laid  by  the  heels,"  he  said;  *'but, 
above  all,  the  Prince.  Let  there  be  no  mistake.  I 
want  Shere  Ali  lodged  in  the  gaol  here  before  nightfall " ; 
and  Linforth's  voice  broke  in  rapidly  upon  his 
words. 

"Can  I  do  anything  to  help?     What  can  I  do?" 

Ralston  looked  sharply  up  from  his  desk.  There  had 
been  a  noticeable  eagerness,  a  noticeable  anger  in  Lin- 
forth's voice. 

350 


THE  NEEDED  IMPLEMENT 

"You?"  said  Ralston  quietly.  "  You  want  to  help? 
You  were  Shere  Ali's  friend." 

Ralston  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  there  was  no  hint 
of  irony  in  either  words  or  smile.  It  was  a  smile  rather 
of  tolerance,  and  almost  of  regret — the  smile  of  a  man 
who  was  well  accustomed  to  seeing  the  flowers  and 
decorative  things  of  life  wither  over-quickly,  and  yet 
was  still  alert  and  not  indifferent  to  the  change.  His 
work  for  the  moment  was  done.  He  leaned  back 
thoughtfully  in  his  chair.  He  no  longer  looked  at 
Linforth.  His  one  quick  glance  had  shown  him 
enough. 

"So  it's  all  over,  eh?"  he  said,  as  he  played  with  his 
paper-knife.  "Summer  mornings  on  the  Cherwell. 
Travels  in  the  Dauphine.  The  Meije  and  the  Aiguilles 
d'Arves.  Oh,  I  know."  Linforth  moved  as  he  stood 
at  the  side  of  Ralston's  desk,  but  the  set  look  upon  his 
face  did  not  change.  And  Ralston  went  on.  There 
came  a  kind  of  gentle  mockery  into  his  voice.  "The 
shared  ambitions,  the  concerted  plans — gone,  and  not 
even  a  regret  for  them  left,  eh  ?  Tempi  passati  I  Pretty 
sad,  too,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 

But  Linforth  made  no  answer  to  Ralston's  probings. 
Violet  Oliver's  instincts  had  taught  her  the  truth,  which 
Ralston  was  now  learning.  Linforth  could  be  very 
hard.  There  was  nothing  left  of  the  friendship  which 
through  many  years  had  played  so  large  a  part  in  his 
life.     A  woman  had  intervened,  and  Linforth  had  shut 

351 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  door  upon  it,  had  sealed  his  mind  against  its 
memories,  and  his  heart  against  its  claims.  The  even- 
ing at  La  Grave  in  the  Dauphine  had  borne  its  fruit. 
Linforth  stood  there  white  with  anger  against  Shere  Ali, 
hot  to  join  in  the  chase.  Ralston  understood  that  if 
ever  he  should  need  a  man  to  hunt  down  that  quarry 
through  peril  and  privations,  here  at  his  hand  was  the 
man  on  whom  he  could  rely. 

Linforth's  eager  voice  broke  in  again. 

^'What  can  I  do  to  help?" 

Ralston  looked  up  once  more. 

"Nothing — for  the  moment.  If  Shere  Ali  is  cap- 
tured in  Peshawur — nothing  at  all." 

"But  if  he  escapes." 

Ralston  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then  he  filled  his 
pipe  and  lit  it. 

"  If  he  escapes — why,  then,  your  turn  may  come.  I 
make  no  promises,"  he  added  quickly,  as  Linforth,  by 
a  movement,  betrayed  his  satisfaction.  "  It  is  not,  in- 
deed, in  my  power  to  promise.  But  there  may  come 
work  for  you — difficult  w^ork,  dangerous  work,  pro- 
longed work.  For  this  outrage  can't  go  unpunished.  In 
any  case,"  he  ended  with  a  smile,  "the  Road  goes  on." 

He  turned  again  to  his  office-table,  and  Linforth  went 
out  of  the  room. 

The  task  which  Ralston  had  in  view  for  Linforth 
came  by  a  long  step  nearer  that  night.  For  all  night 
the  search  went  on  throughout  the  city,  and  the  search- 

352 


THE   NEEDED  IMPLEMENT 

ers  were  still  empty-handed  in  the  morning.  Ahmed 
Ismail  had  laid  his  plans  too  cunningly.  Shere  Ali 
was  to  be  compromised,  not  captured.  There  was  to 
be  a  price  upon  his  head,  but  the  head  was  not  to  fall. 
And  while  the  search  went  on  from  quarter  to  quarter 
of  Peshawur,  the  Prince  and  his  attendant  were  already 
out  in  the  darkness  upon  the  hills. 

Ralston  telegraphed  to  the  station  on  the  Malakand 
Pass,  to  the  fort  at  Jamrud,  even  to  Landi  Khotal,  at 
the  far  end  of  the  Khyber  Pass,  but  Shere  Ali  had  not 
travelled  along  any  one  of  the  roads  those  positions 
commanded. 

"  I  had  little  hope  indeed  that  he  would,"  said  Ralston 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  ''He  has  given  us  the 
slip.     We  shall  not  catch  up  with  him  now." 

He  was  standing  with  Linforth  at  the  mouth  of  the 
well  which  irrigated  his  garden.     The  water  was  drawn 
up  after  the  Persian  plan.     A  wooden  vertical  wheel 
wound  up  the  bucket,  and  this  wheel  was  made  to  re- 
volve by  a  horizontal  wheel  with  the  spokes  projecting 
beyond  the  rim  and  fitting  into  similar  spokes  upon  the 
vertical  wheel.     A  bullock,  with  a  bandage  over  its 
eyes,  was  harnessed  to  the  horizontal  wheel,  and  paced 
slowly  round  and  round,  turning  it;  while  a  boy  sat  on 
the  bullock's  back  and  beat  it  with  a  stick.     Both  men 
stood  and  listened  to  the  groaning  and  creaking  of  the 
wheels  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  Linforth  said: 
"So,  after  all,  you  mean  to  let  him  go?" 

353 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  Ralston.  "Only  now  we 
shall  have  to  fetch  him  out  of  Chiltistan." 

"Will  they  give  him  up?" 

Ralston  shook  his  head. 

"No."  He  turned  to  Linforth  with  a  smile.  I 
once  heard  the  Political  Officer  described  as  the  man 
who  stands  between  the  soldier  and  his  medal.  Well, 
I  have  tried  to  stand  just  in  that  spot  as  far  as  Chil- 
tistan is  concerned.  But  I  have  not  succeeded.  The 
soldier  will  get  his  medal  in  Chiltistan  this  year.  I 
have  had  telegrams  this  morning  from  Lahore.  A 
punitive  force  has  been  gathered  at  Nowshera.  The 
preparations  have  been  going  on  quietly  for  a  few  weeks. 
It  will  start  in  a  few  days.  I  shall  go  with  it  as  Po- 
litical Officer." 

"You  will  take  me?"  Linforth  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  Ralston  answered.  "I  mean  to  take  you.  I 
told  you  yesterday  there  might  be  service  for  you." 

"Li  Chiltistan?" 

"Or  beyond,"  replied  Ralston.  "Shere  Ali  may 
give  us  the  slip  again." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  arid  rocky  borders  of  Tur- 
kestan, where  flight  would  be  easy  and  where  capture 
would  be  most  difficult.  It  was  to  that  work  that 
Ralston,  looking  far  ahead,  had  in  his  mind  dedicated 
young  Linforth,  knowing  well  that  he  would  count  its 
difficulties  light  in  the  ardour  of  his  pursuit.  Anger 
would  spur  him,  and  the  Road  should  be  held  out  as 

354 


THE   NEEDED   IMPLEMENT 

his  reward.  Ralston  listened  again  to  the  groaning  of 
the  water-wheel,  and  watched  the  hooded  bullock  circle 
round  and  round  with  patient  unvarying  pace,  and  the 
little  boy  on  its  back  making  no  difference  whatever 
with  a  long  stick. 

"Look I"  he  said.  "There's  an  emblem  of  the  In- 
dian administration.  The  wheels  creak  and  groan,  the 
bullock  goes  on  round  and  round  with  a  bandage  over 
its  eyes,  and  the  little  boy  on  its  back  cuts  a  fine  im- 
portant figure  and  looks  as  if  he  were  doing  ever  so 
much,  and  somehow  the  water  comes  up — that's  the 
great  thing,  the  water  is  fetched  up  somehow  and  the 
land  watered.  When  I  am  inclined  to  be  despondent, 
I  come  and  look  at  my  water-wheel."  He  turned  away 
and  walked  back  to  the  house  with  his  hands  folded 
behind  his  back  and  his  head  bent  forward. 

"You  are  despondent  now?"  Linforth  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Ralston,  with  a  rare  and  sudden  out- 
burst of  confession.  "You,  perhaps,  will  hardly  under- 
stand. You  are  young.  You  have  a  career  to  make. 
You  have  particular  ambitions.  This  trouble  in  Chil- 
tistan  is  your  opportunity.  But  it's  my  sorrow — it's 
almost  my  failure."  He  turned  his  face  towards  Lin- 
forth with  a  whimsical  smile.  "I  have  tried  to  stand 
between  the  soldier  and  his  medal.  I  wanted  to  extend 
our  political  influence  there — yes.  Because  that  makes 
for  peace,  and  it  makes  for  good  government.  The 
tribes  lose  their  fear  that  their  independence  will  be 

355 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

assailed,  they  come  in  time  to  the  PoHtical  Officer  for 
advice,  they  lay  their  private  quarrels  and  feuds  before 
him  for  arbitration.  That  has  happened  in  many 
valleys,  and  I  had  always  a  hope  that  though  Chiltistan 
has  a  ruling  Prince,  the  same  sort  of  thing  might  in 
time  happen  there.  Yes,  even  at  the  cost  of  the  Road," 
and  again  his  very  taking  smile  illumined  for  a  moment 
his  worn  face.  "  But  that  hope  is  gone  now.  A  force 
will  go  up  and  demand  Shere  Ali.  Shere  Ali  will  not 
be  given  up.  Even  were  the  demand  not  made,  it 
would  make  no  difference.  He  will  not  be  many  days 
in  Chiltistan  before  Chiltistan  is  in  arms.  Already  I 
have  sent  a  messenger  up  to  the  Resident,  telling  him 
to  come  dow^n." 

"And  then?"  asked  Linforth. 

Ralston  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"More  or  less  fighting,  more  or  less  loss,  a  few  vil- 
lages burnt,  and  the  only  inevitable  end.  We  shall 
either  take  over  the  country  or  set  up  another 
Prince." 

"Set  up  another  Prince?"  exclaimed  Linforth  in  a 
startled  voice.     "In  that  case " 

Ralston  broke  in  upon  him  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  man  of  one  idea,  in  any  case  the  Road  will 
go  on  to  the  foot  of  the  Hindu  Kush.  That's  the  price 
which  Chiltistan  must  pay  as  security  for  future  peace 
— the  military  road  through  Kohara  to  the  foot  of  the 
Hindu  Kush." 

356 


THE  NEEDED  BIPLEMENT 

Linforth's  face  cleared,  and  he  said  cheerfully: 

"It's  strange  that  Shere  AH  doesn't  realise  that  him- 
self." 

The  cheerfulness  of  his  voice,  as  much  as  his  words, 
caused  Ralston  to  stop  and  turn  upon  his  companion 
in  a  moment  of  exasperation. 

"Perhaps  he  does."  he  exclaimed,  and  then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  pay  a  tribute  to  the  young  Prince  of  Chiltis- 
tan  which  took  Linforth  fair(y  by  surprise. 

"Don't  you  understand — you  who  know  him,  you 
who  grew  up  with  him,  you  who  were  his  friend  ?  He's 
a  man.  I  know  these  hill-people,  and  like  every  other 
Englishman  who  has  served  among  them,  I  love  them 
— knowing  their  faults.  Shere  Ali  has  the  faults  of  the 
Pathan,  or  some  of  them.  He  has  their  vanity;  he 
has,  if  you  like,  their  fanaticism.  But  he's  a  man. 
He's  flattered  and  petted  like  a  lap-dog,  he's  played 
with  like  a  toy.  Well,  he's  neither  a  lap-dog  nor  a  toy, 
and  he  takes  the  flattery  and  the  petting  seriously.  He 
thinks  it's  meant,  and  he  behaves  accordingly.  What, 
then?  The  toy  is  thrown  down  on  the  ground,  the 
lap-dog  is  kicked  into  the  corner.  But  he's  not  a  lap- 
dog,  he's  not  a  toy.  He's  a  man.  He  has  a  man's  re- 
sentments a  man' 7  wounded  heart,  a  man's  determina- 
tion not  to  submit  to  flattery  one  moment  and  humilia- 
tion the  next.  So  he  strikes.  He  tries  to  take  the 
white,  soft,  pretty  thing  which  has  been  dangled  before 
his  eyes  and  snatched  away — he  tries  to  take  her  by 

857 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

force  and  fails.  He  goes  back  tc  his  own  people,  and 
strikes.  Do  you  blame  him?  Would  you  rather  he 
sat  down  and  grumbled  and  bragged  of  his  successes, 
and  took  to  drink,  as  more  than  one  down  south  has 
done?  Perhaps  so.  It  would  be  more  comfortable  if 
he  did.  But  which  of  the  pictures  do  you  admire? 
Which  of  the  two  is  the  better  man  ?  For  me,  the  man 
who  strikes — even  if  I  have  to  go  up  into  his  country 
and  exact  the  penalty  afterwards.  Shere  Ali  is  one  of 
the  best  of  the  Princes.  But  he  has  been  badly  treated 
and  so  he  must  suffer. "' 

Ralston  repeated  his  conclusion  with  a  savage  irony. 
"  That's  the  whole  truth.  He's  one  of  the  best  of  them. 
Therefore  he  doesn't  take  bad  treatment  with  a  servile 
gratitude.  Therefore  he  must  suffer  still  more.  But 
the  fault  in  the  beginning  was  not  his." 

Thus  it  fell  to  Ralston  to  explain,  twenty-six  years 
later,  the  saying  of  a  long-forgotten  Political  Officer 
which  had  seemed  so  dark  to  Colonel  Dewes  when  it 
was  uttered  in  the  little  fort  in  Chiltistan.  There  was 
a  special  danger  for  the  best  in  the  upbringing  of  the 
Indian  princes  in  England. 

Linforth  flushed  as  he  listened  to  the  tirade,  but  he 
made  no  answer.  Ralston  looked  at  him  keenly, 
wondering  with  a  queer  amusement  whether  he  had 
not  blunted  the  keen  edge  of  that  tool  which  he  was 
keeping  at  his  side  because  he  foresaw  the  need  of  it. 
But  there  was  no  sign  of  any  softening  upon  I^inforth's 

358 


THE  NEEDED  IMPLEMENT 

face.  He  could  be  hard,  but  on  the  other  hand,  when 
he  gave  his  faith  he  gave  it  without  reserve.  Almost 
every  word  which  Ralston  had  spoken  had  seemed  to 
him  an  aspersion  upon  Violet  Oliver.  He  said  nothing, 
for  he  had  learned  to  keep  silence.  But  his  anger  was 
hotter  than  ever  against  Shere  Ali,  since  but  for  Shere 
Ali  the  aspersions  would  never  have  been  cast. 


359 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

The  messenger  whom  Ralston  sent  with  a  sealed 
letter  to  the  Resident  at  Kohara  left  Peshawur  in  the 
afternoon  and  travelled  up  the  road  by  way  of  Dir  and 
the  Lowari  Pass.  He  travelled  quickly,  spending  little 
of  his  time  at  the  rest-houses  on  the  way,  and  yet 
arrived  no  sooner  on  that  account.  It  was  not  he  at 
all  who  brought  his  news  to  Kohara.  Neither  letter 
nor  messenger,  indeed,  ever  reached  the  Resident's 
door,  although  Captain  Phillips  learned  something  of 
the  letter's  contents  a  day  before  the  messenger  was 
due.  A  queer,  and  to  use  his  own  epithet,  a  dramatic 
stroke  of  fortune  aided  him  at  a  very  critical  moment. 

It  happened  in  this  way.  ^Miile  Captain  Phillips  was 
smoking  a  cheroot  as  he  sat  over  his  correspondence  in 
the  morning,  a  servant  from  the  great  Palace  on  the 
hill  brought  to  him  a  letter  in  the  Khan's  own  hand- 
-vvTiting.  It  was  a  flowery  letter  and  invoked  many 
blessings  upon  the  Khan's  faithful  friend  and  brother, 
and  wound  up  with  a  single  sentence,  like  a  lady's 
postscript,  in  which  the  whole  object  of  the  letter  was 
contained.  Would  his  Excellency  the  Captain,  in 
spite  of  his  overwhelming  duties,  of  which  the  Khan 
was  well  aware,  since  they  all  tended  to  the  great  benefit 

360 


AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

and  prosperity  of  his  State,  be  kind  enough  to  pay  a 
visit  to  the  Khan  that  day  ? 

"What's  the  old  rascal  up  to  now?"  thought  Captain 
Phillips.     He  replied,  with  less  ornament  and  fewer 
flourishes,  that  he  would  come  after  breakfast;    and 
mounting  his  horse  at  the  appointed  time  he  rode  down 
through  the  wide  street  of  Kohara  and  up  the  hill  at 
the  end,  on  the  terraced  slopes  of  which  climbed  the 
gardens  and  mud  walls  of  the  Palace.     He  was  led  at 
once  into  the  big  reception-room  with  the  painted  walls 
and  the  silver-gilt  chairs,  where  the  Khan  had  once 
received  his  son  with  a  loaded  rifle  across  his  knees. 
The  Khan  was  now  seated  with  his  courtiers  about  him, 
and  was  carving  the  rind  of  a  pomegranate  into  pat- 
terns, like  a  man  with  his  thoughts  far  away.     But  he 
welcomed  Captain  Phillips  with  alacrity  and  at  once 
dismissed  his  Court. 

Captain  Phillips  settled  down  patiently  in  his  chair. 
He  was  weU  aware  of  the  course  the  interview  would 
take.  The  Khan  would  talk  away  without  any  ap- 
parent aim  for  an  hour  or  two  hours,  passing  carelessly 
from  subject  to  subject,  and  then  suddenly  the  impor- 
tant question  would  be  asked,  the  important  subject 
mooted.  On  this  occasion,  however,  the  Khan  came 
with  unusual  rapidity  to  his  point.  A  few  inquiries  as 
to  the  Colonel's  health,  a  short  oration  on  the  back- 
wardness of  the  crops,  a  lengthier  one  upon  his  fidelity 
to  and  friendship  for  the  British  Government  and  the 

361 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

miserable  return  ever  made  to  him  for  it,  and  then  came 
a  question  hidicrously  inapposite  and  put  with  the 
solemn  naivete  of  a  child. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  said  the  Khan,  tugging  at 
his  great  grey  beard,  "that  my  grandfather  married  a 
fairy  for  one  of  his  wives  ?" 

It  was  on  the  strength  of  such  abrupt  questions  that 
strangers  were  apt  to  think  that  the  Khan  had  fallen 
into  his  second  childhood  before  his  time.  But  the 
Resident  knew  his  man.  He  was  aware  that  the  Khan 
was  watching  for  his  answer.  He  sat  up  in  his  chair 
and  answered  politely: 

"So,  your  Highness,  I  have  heard." 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  continued  the  Khan.  "Moreover, 
the  fairy  bore  him  a  daughter  who  is  still  alive,  though 
very  old." 

"So  there  is  still  a  fairy  in  the  family,"  replied  Cap- 
tain Phillips  pleasantly,  while  he  wondered  what  in  the 
world  the  Khan  was  driving  at.  "Yes,  indeed,  I  know 
that.  For  only  a  week  ago  I  was  asked  by  a  poor  man 
up  the  valley  to  secure  your  Highnesses  intercession.  It 
seems  that  he  is  much  plagued  by  a  fairy  who  has 
taken  possession  of  his  house,  and  since  your  Highness 
is  related  to  the  fairies,  he  would  be  very  grateful  if 
you  would  persuade  his  fairy  to  go  away." 

"I  know,"  said  the  Khan  gravely.  "The  case  has 
already  been  brought  to  me.  The  fellow  will  open 
closed  boxes  in  his  house,  and  the  fairy  resents  it." 

362 


AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

"Then  your  Highness  has  exorcised  the  fairy?" 
"No;    I  have  forbidden  him  to  open  boxes  in  his 
house,"  said  the  Khan;   and  then,  with  a  smile,  "But 
it  was  not  of  him  we  were  speaking,  but  of  the  fairy  in 

my  family." 

He  leaned  forward  and  his  voice  shook. 

"  She  sends  me  warnings,  Captain  Sahib.  Two  nights 
ago,  by  the  flat  stone  where  the  fairies  dance,  she  heard 
them— the  voices  of  an  innumerable  multitude  in  the 
air  talking  the  Chilti  tongue— talking  of  trouble  to 
come  in  the  near  days." 

He  spoke  with  burning  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Resident 
and  with  his  fingers  playing  nervously  in  and  out 
among  the  hairs  of  his  beard.  Whether  the  Khan 
really  believed  the  story  of  the  fairies— there  is  nothing 
more  usual  than  a  belief  in  fairies  in  the  countries 
bordered  by  the  snow-peaks  of  the  Hindu  Kush— or 
whether  he  used  the  story  as  a  blind  to  conceal  the  real 
source  of  his  fear,  the  Resident  could  not  decide.  But 
what  he  did  know  was  this:  The  Khan  of  Chiltistan 
was  desperately  afraid.  A  whole  programme  of  re- 
form was  sketched  out  for  the  Captain's  hearing. 

"I  have  been  a  good  friend  to  the  English,  Captain 
Sahib.  I  have  kept  my  Mullahs  and  my  people  quiet 
all  these  years.  There  are  things  which  might  be  bet- 
ter, as  your  Excellency  has  courteously  pointed  out  to 
me,  and  the  words  have  never  been  forgotten.  The 
taxes  no  doubt  are  verv  burdensome,  and  it  may  be  the 

363 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

caravans  from  Bokhara  and  Central  Asia  should  pay 
less  to  the  treasury  as  they  pass  through  Chiltistan,  and 
perhaps  I  do  unjustly  in  buying  what  I  want  from  them 
at  my  own  price."  Thus  he  delicately  described  the 
system  of  barefaced  robbery  which  he  practised  on  the 
traders  who  passed  southwards  to  India  through  Chil- 
tistan.  "  But  these  things  can  be  altered.  Moreover/* 
and  here  he  spoke  with  an  air  of  distinguished  virtue, 
"I  propose  to  sell  no  more  of  my  people  into  slavery — 
No,  and  to  give  none  of  them,  not  even  the  youngest, 
as  presents  to  my  friends.  It  is  quite  true  of  course 
that  the  wood  which  T  sell  to  the  merchants  of  Peshawur 
is  cut  and  brought  down  by  forced  labour,  but  next 
year  I  am  thinking  of  paying.  I  have  been  a  good 
friend  to  the  English  all  my  life,  Colonel  Sahib." 

Captain  Phillips  had  heard  promises  of  the  kind  be- 
fore and  accounted  them  at  their  true  value.  But  he 
had  never  heard  them  delivered  with  so  earnest  a  pro- 
testation. And  he  rode  away  from  the  Palace  with  the 
disturbing  conviction  that  there  was  something  new  in 
the  wind  of  which  he  did  not  know. 

He  rode  up  the  valley,  pondering  what  that  some- 
thing new  might  be.  Hillside  and  plain  were  ablaze 
with  autumn  colours.  The  fruit  in  the  orchards- 
peaches,  apples,  and  grapes — was  ripe,  and  on  the  river 
bank  the  gold  of  the  willows  glowed  among  thickets  of 
red  rose.  High  up  on  the  hills,  field  rose  above  field, 
supported  by  stone  walls.     In  the  bosom  of  the  valley 

364 


AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

groups  of  great  walnut-trees  marked  where  the  villages 
stood. 

Captain  Phillips  rode  through  the  villages.  Every- 
where he  was  met  with  smiling  faces  and  courteous 
salutes;  but  he  drew  no  comfort  from  them.  The 
Chilti  would  smile  pleasantly  while  he  was  fitting  his 
knife  in  under  your  fifth  rib.  Only  once  did  Phillips 
receive  a  hint  that  something  was  amiss,  but  the  hint 
was  so  elusive  that  it  did  no  more  than  quicken  his  un- 
easiness. 

He  was  riding  over  grass,  and  came  silently  upon  a 
man  whose  back  was  turned  to  him. 

"So,  Dadu,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  must  not  open 
closed  boxes  any  more  in  your  house.'' 

The  man  jumped  round.  He  was  not  merely  sur- 
prised, he  was  startled. 

"Your  Excellency  rides  up  the  valley  ?"  he  cried,  and 
almost  he  barred  the  way. 

"Whynot,  Dadu?" 

Dadu's  face  became  impassive. 

"It  is  as  your  Excellency  wills.  It  is  a  good  day 
for  a  ride,"  said  Dadu;  and  Captain  Phillips  rode 
on. 

It  might  of  course  have  been  that  the  man  had  been 
startled  merely  by  the  unexpected  voice  behind  him; 
and  the  question  which  had  leaped  from  his  mouth 
might  have  meant  nothing  at  all.  Captain  Phillips 
turned  round  in  his  saddle.     Dadu  was  still  standing 

365 


THE   BROKEN   ROAD 

where  he  had  left  him,  and  was  following  the  rider 
with  his  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  up  the  valley  which  I 
ought  to  know  about?"  Captain  Phillips  said  to  him- 
self, and  he  rode  forward  now  with  a  watchful  eye. 
The  hills  began  to  close  in;  the  bosom  of  the  valley  to 
narrow.  Nine  miles  from  Kohara  it  became  a  defile 
through  which  the  river  roared  between  low  precipitous 
cliffs.  Above  the  cliff^s  on  each  side  a  level  of  stony 
ground,  which  here  and  there  had  been  cleared  and 
cultivated,  stretched  to  the  mountain  walls.  At  one 
point  a  great  fan  of  debris  spread  out  from  a  side  valley. 
Across  this  fan  the  track  mounted,  and  then  once  more 
the  valley  widened  out.  On  the  river's  edge  a  roofless 
ruin  of  a  building,  with  a  garden  run  wild  at  one  end 
of  it,  stood  apart.  A  few  hundred  yards  beyond  there 
was  a  village  buried  among  bushes,  and  then  a  deep 
nullah  cut  clean  across  the  valley.  It  was  a  lonely  and 
a  desolate  spot.  Yet  Captain  Phillips  never  rode  across 
the  fan  of  shale  and  came  within  sight  of  it  but  his 
imagination  began  to  people  it  with  living  figures  and 
a  surge  of  wild  events.  He  reined  in  his  horse  as  he 
came  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  sat  for  a  moment  look- 
ing downwards.  Then  he  rode  very  quickly  a  few 
yards  down  the  hill.  Before,  he  and  his  horse  had 
been  standing  out  clear  against  the  sky.  Now,  against 
the  background  of  grey  and  brown  he  would  be  an  un- 
noticeable  figure. 

366 


AN  OLD  TOMB   AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

He  halted  again,  but  this  time  his  eyes,  instead  of 
roving  over  the  valley,  were  fixed  intently  upon  one 
particular  spot.  Under  the  wall  of  the  great  ruined 
building  he  had  seen  something  move.  He  made  sure 
now  of  what  the  something  was.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  horses — no,  seven — seven  horses  tethered  apart 
from  each  other,  and  not  a  syce  for  any  one  of  them. 
Captain  Phillips  felt  his  blood  quicken.  The  Khan's 
protestations  and  Dadu's  startled  question,  had  primed 
him  to  expectation.  Cautiously  he  rode  down  into  the 
valley,  and  suspense  grew  upon  him  as  he  rode.  It  was 
a  still,  windless  day,  and  noise  carried  far.  The  only 
sound  he  heard  was  the  sound  of  the  stones  rattling 
under  the  hoofs  of  his  horse.  But  in  a  httle  while  he 
reached  turf  and  level  ground  and  so  rode  forward  in 
silence.  When  he  was  within  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  of  the  ruin  he  halted  and  tied  up  his  horse  in  a 
grove  of  trees.  Thence  he  walked  across  an  open  space, 
passed  beneath  the  remnant  of  a  gateway  into  a  court 
and,  crossing  the  court,  threaded  his  way  through  a  net- 
work of  narrow  alleys  between  crumbling  mud  walls. 
As  he  advanced  the  sound  of  a  voice  reached  his  ears — 
a  deep  monotonous  voice,  which  spoke  with  a  kind  of 
rhythm.  The  words  Phillips  could  not  distinguish,  but 
there  was  no  need  that  he  should.  The  intonation,  the 
flow  of  the  sentences,  told  him  clearly  enough  that  some- 
where beyond  was  a  man  praying.  And  then  he  stopped, 
for  other  voices  broke  suddenly  in  with  loud  and,  as  it 

367 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

seemed  to  Phillips,  with  fierce  appeals.  But  the  ap- 
peals died  away,  the  one  voice  again  took  up  the  prayer, 
and  again  Phillips  stepped  forward. 

At  the  end  of  the  alley  he  came  to  a  doorway  in  a 
high  wall.  There  was  no  door.  He  stood  on  the  thres- 
hold of  the  doorway  and  looked  in.  He  looked  into  a 
court  open  to  the  sky,  and  the  seven  horses  and  the 
monotonous  voice  were  explained  to  him.  There  were 
seven  young  men — nobles  of  Chiltistan,  as  Phillips 
knew  from  their  chogas  of  velvet  and  Chinese  silk — 
gathered  in  the  court.  They  were  kneeling  with  their 
backs  towards  him  and  the  doorway,  so  that  not  one 
of  them  had  noticed  his  approach.  They  were  facing 
a  small  rough-hewn  obelisk  of  stone  which  stood  at  the 
head  of  a  low  mound  of  earth  at  the  far  end  of  the  court. 
Six  of  them  were  grouped  in  a  sort  of  semi-circle,  and 
the  seventh,  a  man  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  green 
robes,  knelt  a  little  in  advance  and  alone.  But  from 
none  of  the  seven  nobles  did  the  voice  proceed.  In 
front  of  them  all  knelt  an  old  man  in  the  brown  home- 
spun of  the  people.  Phillips,  from  the  doorway,  could 
see  his  great  beard  wagging  as  he  prayed,  and  knew 
him  for  one  of  the  incendiary  priests  of  Chiltistan. 

The  prayer  was  one  with  w^hich  Phillips  was  familiar: 
The  Day  was  at  hand;  the  infidels  would  be  scattered 
as  chafi^;  the  God  of  Mahommed  was  besought  to  send 
the  innumerable  company  of  his  angels  and  to  make 
his  faithful  people  invulnerable  to  wounds.     Phillips 

368 


AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

could  have  gone  on  with  the  prayer  himself,  had 
the  Mullah  failed.  But  it  was  not  the  prayer  which 
held  him  rooted  to  the  spot,  but  the  setting  of  the 
prayer. 

The  scene  was  in  itself  strange  and  significant  enough. 
These  seven  gaily  robed  youths  assembled  secretly  in 
a  lonely  and  desolate  ruin  nine  miles  from  Kohara  had 
come  thither  not  merely  for  prayer.  The  prayer  would 
be  but  the  seal  upon  a  compact,  the  blessing  upon  an 
undertaking  where  life  and  death  were  the  issues.  But 
there  was  something  more;  and  that  something  more 
gave  to  the  scene  in  Phillips'  eyes  a  very  startling  irony. 
He  knew  well  how  quickly  in  these  countries  the  actual 
record  of  events  is  confused,  and  how  quickly  any 
tomb,  or  any  monument  becomes  a  shrine  before  which 
"the  faithful"  will  bow  and  make  their  prayer.  But 
that  here  of  all  places,  and  before  this  tomb  of  all 
tombs,  the  God  of  the  Mahommedans  should  be  in- 
voked— this  was  life  turning  playwright  with  a  venge- 
ance. It  needed  just  one  more  detail  to  complete  the 
picture  and  the  next  moment  that  detail  was  provided. 
For  Phillips  moved. 

His  boot  rattled  upon  a  loose  stone.  The  prayer 
ceased,  the  worshippers  rose  abruptly  to  their  feet  and 
turned  as  one  man  towards  the  doorway.  Phillips 
saw,  face  to  face,  the  youth  robed  in  green,  who  had 
knelt  at  the  head  of  his  companions.  It  was  Shere  Ali, 
the  Prince  of  Chiltistan. 

369 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Phillips  advanced  at  once  into  the  centre  of  the  group. 
He  was  wise  enough  not  to  hold  out  his  hand  lest  it 
should  be  refused.  But  he  spoke  as  though  he  had 
taken  leave  of  Shere  Ali  only  yesterday. 

"So  your  Highness  has  returned?" 

*'Yes,"  replied  Shere  Ali,  and  he  spoke  in  the  same 
indifferent  tone. 

But  both  men  knew,  however  unconcernedly  they 
spoke,  that  Shere  All's  return  was  to  be  momentous 
in  the  history  of  Chiltistan.  Shere  All's  father  knew 
it  too,  that  troubled  man  in  the  Palace  above 
Kohara. 

"When  did  you  reach  Kohara?"  Phillips  asked. 

"I  have  not  yet  been  to  Kohara.  I  ride  down  from 
here  this  afternoon." 

Shere  Ali  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  the  smile  said  more 
than  the  words.  There  was  a  challenge,  a  defiance 
in  it,  which  were  unmistakable.  But  Phillips  chose  to 
interpret  the  words  quite  simply. 

"Shall  we  go  together?"  he  said,  and  then  he  looked 
towards  the  doorway.  The  others  had  gathered  there, 
the  six  young  men  and  the  priest.  They  were  armed 
and  more  than  one  had  his  hand  ready  upon  his  sword- 
hilt.  "  But  you  have  friends,  I  see,"  he  added  grimly. 
He  began  to  wonder  whether  he  would  himself  ride 
back  to  Kohara  that  afternoon. 

"Yes,"  replied  Shere  Ali  quietly,  "I  have  fnends 
in   Chiltistan,"  and  he  laid  a  stress  upon   the  name 

370 


AN  OLD   TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

of  his  coimtiy,  as  though  he  wished  to  show  to  Cap- 
tain PhiUips  that  he  recognised  no  friends  outside  its 
borders. 

Again  Philhps'  thoughts  were  swept  to  the  irony,  the 
tragic  irony  of  the  scene  in  which  he  now  was  called  to 
play  a  part. 

"  Does  your  Highness  know  this  spot  ?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. Then  he  pointed  to  the  tomb  and  the  rude 
obelisk.  "Does  your  Highness  know  whose  bones  are 
laid  at  the  foot  of  that  monument?" 

Shere  Ali  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Within  these  walls,  in  one  of  these  roofless  rooms, 
you  were  born,"  said  Phillips,  "and  that  grave  be- 
fore which  you  prayed  is  the  grave  of  a  man  named 
Luffe,  who  defended  this  fort  in  those  days." 

"It  is  not,"  replied  Shere  Ali.  "It  is  the  tomb  of 
a  saint,"  and  he  called  to  the  mullah  for  corrobora- 
tion of  his  words. 

"It  is  the  tomb  of  Luffe.  He  fell  in  this  courtyard, 
struck  down  not  by  a  bullet,  but  by  overwork  and  the 
strain  of  the  siege.  I  know.  I  have  the  story  from 
an  old  soldier  whom  I  met  in  Cashmere  this  summer 
and  who  served  here  under  Luffe.  Luffe  fell  in  this 
court,  and  when  he  died  was  buried  here." 

Shere  Ali,  in  spite  of  himself  was  beginning  to  listen 
to  Captain  Phillips'  words. 

"Who  was  the  soldier?"  he  asked. 

"Colonel  Dewes." 

371 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Shere  Ali  nodded  his  head  as  though  he  had  ex- 
pected the  name.     Then  he  said  as  he  turned  away: 

"^Nhai  is  Luffe  to  me?  What  should  I  know  of 
Luffe?" 

"This,"  said  PhilHps,  and  he  spoke  in  so  arresting  a 
voice  that  Shere  AU  turned  again  to  Hsten  to  him. 
"When  Luffe  was  dying,  he  uttered  an  appeal — he  be- 
queathed it  to  India,  as  his  last  service;  and  the  appeal 
was  that  you  should  not  be  sent  to  England,  that  neither 
Eton  nor  Oxford  should  know  you,  that  you  should  re- 
main in  your  own  country." 

The  Resident  had  Shere  All's  attention  now. 

"He  said  that?"  cried  the  Prince  in  a  startled  voice. 
Then  he  pointed  his  finger  to  the  grave.  "The  man 
lying  there  said  that?" 

"Yes." 

"And  no  one  listened,  I  suppose?"  said  Shere  Ali 
bitterly. 

"Or  listened  too  late,"  said  Phillips.  "Like  Dewes, 
who  only  since  he  met  you  in  Calcutta  one  day  upon 
the  racecourse,  seems  dimly  to  have  understood  the 
words  the  dead  man  spoke." 

Shere  Ali  was  silent.  He  stood  looking  at  the  grave 
and  the  obelisk  with  a  gentler  face  than  he  had  shown 
before. 

"^^^ly  did  he  not  wish  it  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"He  said  that  it  would  mean  unhappiness  for  you; 
that  it  might  mean  ruin  for  Chiltistan." 

372 


AN  OLD  TOMB  AND  A  NEW  SHRINE 

"Did  he  say  that?"  said  Shere  Ali  slowly,  and  there 
was  something  of  awe  in  his  voice.  Then  he  recovered 
himself  and  cried  defiantly.  "Yet  in  one  point  he  was 
wrong.     It  will  not  mean  ruin  for  Chiltistan." 

So  far  he  had  spoken  in  English.  Now  he  turned 
quickly  towards  his  friends  and  spoke  in  his  own  tongue. 

"It  is  time.  We  will  go,"  and  to  Captain  Phillips  he 
said,  "You  shall  ride  back  with  me  to  Kohara.  I  will 
leave  you  at  the  doorway  of  the  Residency."  And 
these  words,  too,  he  spoke  in  his  own  tongue. 

There  rose  a  clamour  among  the  seven  who  waited 
in  the  doorway,  and  loudest  of  all  rose  the  voice  of  the 
mullah,  protesting  against  Shere  All's  promise. 

"My  word  is  given,"  said  the  Prince,  and  he  turned 
with  a  smile  to  Captain  Phillips.  "In  memory  of  my 
friend," — he  pointed  to  the  grave — "  For  it  seems  I  had 
a  friend  once  amongst  the  white  people.  In  memory 
of  my  friend,  I  give  you  your  life." 


373 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

SURPRISES   FOR   CAPTAIN   PHILLIPS 

The  young  nobles  ceased  from  their  outcry.  They 
went  sullenly  out  and  mounted  their  horses  under  the 
ruined  wall  of  the  old  fort.  But  as  they  mounted  they 
whispered  together  with  quick  glances  towards  Cap- 
tain Phillips.  The  Resident  intercepted  the  glance  and 
had  little  doubt  as  to  the  subject  of  the  whispering. 

"I  am  in  the  deuce  of  a  tight  place,"  he  reflected; 
"it's  seven  to  one  against  my  ever  reaching  Kohara, 
and  the  one's  a  doubtful  quantity." 

He  looked  at  Shere  Ali,  wfio  seemed  quite  undisturbed 
by  the  prospect  of  mutiny  amongst  his  followers.  His 
face  had  hardened  a  little.     That  was  all. 

"And  your  horse?"  Shere  Ali  asked. 

Captain  Phillips  pointed  towards  the  clump  of  trees 
where  he  had  tied  it  up. 

"Will  you  fetch  it?"  said  Shere  Ali,  and  as  Phillips 
walked  off,  he  turned  towards  the  nobles  and  the  old 
mullah  who  stood  amongst  them.  Phillips  heard  his 
voice,  as  he  began  to  speak,  and  was  surprised  by  a 
masterful  quiet  ring  in  it.  "The  doubtful  quantity 
seems  to  have  grown  into  a  man,"  he  thought,  and 
the  thought  gained  strength  when  he  rode  his  horse 

374 


SURPRISES  FOR  CAPTAIN  PHILLIPS 

back  from  the  clump  of  trees  towards  the  group.  Shere 
AH  met  him  gravely.  . 

"You  will  ride  on  my  right  hand,"  he  said.  "You 
need  have  no  fear." 

The  seven  nobles  clustered  behind,  and  the  party 
rode  at  a  walk  over  the  fan  of  shale  and  through  the 
defile  into  the  broad  valley  of  Kohara.  Shere  Ali  did 
not  speak.  He  rode  on  with  a  set  and  brooding  face,  and 
the  Resident  fell  once  more  to  pondering  the  queer  scene 
of  which  he  had  been  the  witness.  Even  at  that  mo- 
ment when  his  life  was  in  the  balance  his  thoughts 
would  play  with  it,  so  complete  a  piece  of  artistry  it 
seemed.  There  was  the  tomb  itself^an  earth  grave 
and  a  rough  obelisk  without  so  much  as  a  name  or  a 
date  upon  it  set  up  at  its  head  by  some  past  Resident  at 
Kohara.  It  was  appropriate  and  seemly  to  the  man 
without  friends,  or  family,  or  wife,  but  to  whom  the 
Frontier  had  been  all  these.  He  would  have  wished 
for  no  more  himself,  since  vanity  had  played  so  small  a 
part  in  his  career.  He  had  been  the  great  Force  upon 
the  Frontier,  keeping  the  Queen's  peace  by  the  strength 
of  his  character  and  the  sagacity  of  his  mind.  Yet  be- 
fore his  grave,  invoking  him  as  an  unknown  saint,  the 
nobles  of  Chiltistan  had  knelt  to  pray  for  the  destruction 
of  such  as  he  and  the  overthrow  of  the  power  which  he 
had  lived  to  represent.  And  a'i  because  his  advice 
had  been  neglected. 

Captain  Phili^'ps  was  roused  out  of  his  reflections 

375 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

as  the  cavalcade  approached  a  village.  For  out  of  that 
village  and  from  the  fields  about  it,  the  men,  armed  for 
the  most  part  with  good  rifles,  poured  towards  them 
with  cries  of  homage.  They  joined  the  cavalcade, 
marched  with  it  past  their  homes,  and  did  not  turn  back. 
Only  the  women  and  the  children  were  left  behind. 
And  at  the  next  village  and  at  the  next  the  same  thing 
happened.  The  cavalcade  began  to  swell  into  a  small 
army,  an  army  of  men  well  equipped  for  war;  and  at 
the  head  of  the  gathering  force  Shere  Ali  rode  with  an 
impassive  face,  never  speaking  but  to  check  a  man 
from  time  to  time  who  brandished  a  weapon  at  the 
Resident. 

"Your  Highness  has  counted  the  cost?"  Captain 
Phillips  asked.     "There  will  be  but  the  one  end  to  it." 

Shere  Ali  turned  to  the  Resident,  and  though  his 
face  did  not  change  from  its  brooding  calm,  a  fire  burned 
darkly  in  his  eyes. 

"From  Afghanistan  to  Thibet  the  frontier  will  rise," 
he  said  proudly. 

Captain  Phillips  shook  his  head. 

"From  Afghanistan  to  Thibet  the  Frontier  will  wait, 
as  it  always  waits.  It  will  wait  to  see  what  happens  in 
Chiltistan. 

But  though  he  spoke  boldly,  he  had  little  comfort 
from  his  thoughts.  The  rising  had  been  well  con- 
certed. Those  who  flocked  to  Shere  Ali  were  not  only 
the  villagers  of  the  Kohara  valley.     There  were  shep- 

376 


SURPRISES  FOR  CAPTAIN  PHILLIPS 

herds  from  the  hills,  wild  men  from  the  far  corners  of 
Chiltistan.  Already  the  small  army  could  be  counted 
with  the  hundred  for  its  unit.  To-morrow  the  hundred 
would  be  a  thousand.  Moreover,  for  once  in  a  way 
there  was  no  divided  counsel.  Jealousy  and  intrigue 
were  not,  it  seemed,  to  do  their  usual  work  in  Chiltistan. 
There  was  only  one  master,  and  he  of  unquestioned 
authority.  Else  how  came  it  that  Captain  Phillips 
rode  amidst  that  great  and  frenzied  throng,  unhurt 
and  almost  unthreatened  ? 

Down  the  valley  the  roof-tops  of  Kohara  began  to 
show  amongst  the  trees.  The  high  palace  on  the  hill 
with  its  latticed  windows  bulked  against  the  evening 
sky.  The  sound  of  many  drums  was  borne  to  the 
Resident's  ears.  The  Residency  stood  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  the  town  in  a  great  garden.  A  high  wall  en- 
closed it,  but  it  was  a  house,  not  a  fortress;  and  Phil- 
lips had  at  his  command  but  a  few  levies  to  defend  it. 
One  of  them  stood  by  the  gate.  He  kept  his  ground 
as  Shere  Ali  and  his  force  approached.  The  only 
movement  which  he  made  was  to  stand  at  attention, 
and  as  Shere  Ali  halted  at  the  entrance,  he  saluted. 
But  it  was  Captain  Phillips  whom  he  saluted,  and  not 
the  Prince  of  Chiltistan.  Shere  Ali  spoke  with  the 
same  quiet  note  of  confident  authority  which  had  sur- 
prised Captain  Phillips  before,  to  the  seven  nobles  at 
his  back.     Then  he  turned  to  the  Resident. 

"  I  will  ride  with  you  to  your  door,"  he  said. 

377 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

The  two  men  passed  alone  through  the  gateway  and 
along  a  broad  path  which  divided  the  forecourt  to  the 
steps  of  the  house.  And  not  a  man  of  all  that  crowd 
which  followed  Shere  Ali  to  Kohara  pressed  in  behind 
them.  Captain  Phillips  looked  back  as  much  in  sur- 
prise as  in  relief.  But  there  was  no  surprise  on  the 
face  of  Shere  Ali.  He,  it  was  plain,  expected  obedi- 
ence. 

"Upon  my  word,"  cried  Phillips  in  a  burst  of  ad- 
miration, "you  have  got  your  fellows  well  in  hand." 

"I?"  said  Shere  Ali.  "I  am  nothing.  What  could 
I  do  who  a  week  ago  was  still  a  stranger  to  my  people  ? 
I  am  a  voice,  nothing  more.  But  the  God  of  my 
people  speaks  through  me";  and  as  he  spoke  these 
last  words,  his  voice  suddenly  rose  to  a  shrill  trembling 
note,  his  face  suddenly  quivered  with  excitement. 

Captain  Phillips  stared.  "The  man's  in  earnest," 
he  muttered  to  himself.     "He  actually  believes  it." 

It  was  the  second  time  that  Captain  Phillips  had  been 
surprised  within  five  minutes,  and  on  this  occasion 
the  surprise  came  upon  him  with  a  shock.  How  it  had 
come  about — that  was  all  dark  to  Captain  Phillips. 
But  the  result  was  clear.  The  few  words  spoken  as 
they  had  been  spoken  revealed  the  fact.  The  veneer 
of  Shere  All's  English  training  had  gone.  Shere  Ali 
had  reverted.     His  own  people  had  claimed  him. 

"And  I  guessed  nothing  of  this,"  the  Resident  re- 
flected bitterly.     Signs  of  trouble  he  had  noticed  in 

378 


SURPRISES  FOR  CAPTAIN  PHILLIPS 

abundance,  but  this  one  crucial  fact  which  made 
trouble  a  certain  and  unavoidable  thing — that  had  ut- 
terly escaped  him.  His  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
nameless  tomb  in  the  courtyard  of  the  fort. 

"Luffe  would  have  known,"  he  thought  in  a  very 
bitter  humility.     "Nay,  he  did  know.     Pie  foresaw." 

There  was  yet  a  third  surprise  in  store  for  Captain 
Phillips.  As  the  two  lucii  rode  up  the  broad  path,  he 
had  noticed  that  the  door  of  the  house  was  standing 
open,  as  it  usually  did.  Now,  however,  he  saw  it 
swing  to — very  slowly,  very  noiselessly.  He  was  sur- 
prised, for  he  knew  the  door  to  be  a  strong  heavy  door 
of  walnut  wood,  not  likely  to  swing  to  even  in  a  wind. 
And  there  was  no  wind.  Besides,  if  it  had  swung  to 
of  its  own  accord,  it  would  have  slammed.  Its  weight 
would  have  made  it  slam.  Whereas  it  was  not  quite 
closed.  As  he  reined  in  his  horse  at  the  steps,  he  saw 
that  there  was  a  chink  between  the  door  and  the  door- 
post. 

"There's  someone  behind  that  door,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  he  glanced  quietly  at  Shere  Ali.  It  would  be 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  Chilti  character  for  Shere  Ali 
politely  to  escort  him  home  knowing  well  that  an  as- 
sassin waited  behind  the  door;  and  it  was  with  a  smile 
of  some  irony  that  he  listened  to  Shere  Ali  taking  his 
leave. 

"You  will  be  safe,  so  long  as  you  stay  within  your 
grounds.     I  will  place  a  guard  about  the  house.     I  do 

379 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

not  make  war  against  my  country's  guests.  And  in  a 
few  days  I  will  send  an  escort  and  set  you  and  your 
attendants  free  from  hurt  beyond  our  borders.  But" — 
and  his  voice  lost  its  courtesy — "take  care  you  admit 
no  one,  and  give  shelter  to  no  one." 

The  menace  of  Shere  All's  tone  roused  Captain  Phil- 
lips. "I  take  no  orders  from  your  Highness,"  he  said 
firmly.  "Your  Highness  may  not  have  noticed  that," 
and  he  pointed  upwards  to  where  on  a  high  flagstaff  in 
front  of  the  house  the  English  flag  hung  against  the 
pole. 

"I  give  your  Excellency  no  orders,"  replied  Shere 
Ali.  "But  on  the  other  hand  I  give  you  a  warning. 
Shelter  so  much  as  one  man  and  that  flag  will  not  save 
you.     I  should  not  be  able  to  hold  in  my  men." 

Shere  Ali  turned  and  rode  back  to  the  gates.  Cap- 
tain Phillips  dismounted,  and  calling  forward  a  reluc- 
tant groom,  gave  him  his  horse.  Then  he  suddenly 
flune:  back  the  door.  But  there  was  no  resistance. 
The  door  swung  in  and  clattered  against  the  wall. 
Phillips  looked  into  the  hall,  but  the  dusk  was  gathering 
in  the  garden.  He  looked  into  a  place  of  twilight  and 
shadows.  He  grasped  his  riding-crop  a  little  more 
firmly  in  his  hand  and  strode  through  the  doorway. 
In  a  dark  corner  something  moved. 

"Ah!  would  you!"  cried  Captain  Phillips,  turning 
sharply  on  the  instant.  He  raised  his  crop  above  his 
head  and  then  a  crouching  figure  fell  at  his  feet  and 

380 


SURPRISES  FOR  CAPTAIN  PHILLIPS 

embraced  his  knees;  and  a  trembling  voice  of  fear 
cried : 

"  Save  me !  Your  Excellency  will  not  give  me  up !  I 
have  been  a  good  friend  to  the  English!'' 

For  the  second  time  the  Khan  of  Chiltistan  had 
sought  refuge  from  his  own  people.  Captain  Phillips 
looked  round. 

"  Hush,"  he  whispered  in  a  startled  voice.  "  Let  me 
shut  the  door!" 


381 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


IN   THE   RESIDENCY 


Captain  Phillips  with  a  sharp  gesture  ordered  the 
Khan  back  to  the  shadowy  corner  from  which  he  had 
sprung  out.  Then  he  shut  the  door  and,  with  the 
shutting  of  the  door,  the  darkness  deepened  suddenly 
in  the  hall.  He  shot  the  bolt  and  put  up  the  chain. 
It  rattled  in  his  ears  with  a  startling  loudness.  Then 
he  stood  without  speech  or  movement.  Outside  he 
heard  Shere  All's  voice  ring  clear,  and  the  army  of 
tribesmen  clattered  past  towards  the  town.  The  rattle 
of  their  weapons,  the  hum  of  their  voices  diminished. 
Captain  Phillips  took  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  wiped  his  forehead.  He  had  the  sensations  of  a 
man  reprieved. 

"But  it's  only  a  reprieve,"  he  thought.  "There  will 
be  no  commutation." 

He  turned  again  towards  the  dark  corner. 

"How  did  you  come?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"By  the  orchard  at  the  back  of  the  house." 

"Did  no  one  see  you?" 

"  I  hid  in  the  orchard  until  I  saw  the  red  coat  of  one 
of  your  servants.  I  called  to  him  and  he  let  me  in 
secretly.     But  no  one  else  saw  me." 

"No  one  in  the  city?" 

382 


IN  THE  RESIDENCY 

"1  came  barefoot  in  a  rough  cloak  with  the  hood 
drawn  over  my  face,"  said  the  Khan.  "No  one  paid 
any  heed  to  me.  There  was  much  noise  and  running 
to  and  fro,  and  pohshing  of  weapons.  I  crept  out  into 
the  hill-side  at  the  back  and  so  came  down  into  your 
orchard." 

Captain  Phillips  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  opened 
a  door  and  led  the  Khan  into  a  room  which  looked  out 
upon  the  orchard. 

"Well,  we  will  do  what  we  can,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
very  little.  They  will  guess  immediately  that  you  are 
here  of  course." 

"Once  before "  faltered  the  Khan,  and  Phillips 

broke  in  upon  him  impatiently. 

"Yes,  once  before.  But  it's  not  the  same  thing. 
This  is  a  house,  not  a  fort,  and  I  have  only  a  handful 
of  men  to  defend  it;  and  I  am  not  Luffe."  Then  his 
voice  sharpened.  "  Why  didn't  you  listen  to  him  ?  All 
this  is  your  fault — ^yours  and  Dewes',  who  didn't  under- 
stand, and  held  his  tongue." 

The  Khan  was  mystified  by  the  words,  but  Phillips 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  explain.  He  knew  some- 
thing of  the  Chilti  character.  They  would  have  put  up 
with  the  taxes,  with  the  selling  into  slavery,  with  all 
the  other  abominations  of  the  Khan's  rule.  They 
would  have  listened  to  the  exhortations  of  the  mullahs 
without  anything  coming  of  it,  so  long  as  no  leader 
appeared.     They  were  great  accepters  of  facts  as  thev 

383 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

were.  Let  the  brother  or  son  or  nephew  murder  the 
ruling  Khan  and  sit  in  his  place,  they  accepted  his  rule 
without  any  struggles  of  conscience.  But  let  a  man 
rise  to  lead  them,  then  they  would  bethink  them  of 
the  exhortations  of  their  priests  and  of  their  own  par- 
ticular sufferings  and  flock  to  his  standard.  And  the 
man  had  risen — ^just  because  twenty-five  years  ago  the 
Khan  would  not  listen  to  Luffe. 

"It's  too  late,  however,  for  explanations,"  he  said, 
and  he  clapped  his  hands  together  for  a  servant.  In  a 
few  moments  the  light  of  a  lamp  gleamed  in  the  hall 
through  the  doorway.  Phillips  went  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"Fasten  the  shutters  first,"  he  said  to  the  servant  in 
the  hall.     "Then  bring  the  lamp  in." 

The  servant  obeyed,  but  when  he  brought  the  lamp 
into  the  room,  and  saw  the  Khan  of  Chiltistan  standing 
at  the  table  with  no  more  dignity  of  dress  or,  indeed, 
of  bearing  than  any  beggar  in  the  kingdom,  he  nearly 
let  the  lamp  fall. 

"  His  Highness  will  stay  in  this  house,"  said  Phillips, 
"  but  his  presence  must  not  be  spoken  of.  Will  you  tell 
Poulteney  Sahib  that  I  would  like  to  speak  to  him?" 
The  servant  bowed  his  forehead  to*  the  palms  of  his 
hand  and  turned  away  upon  his  errand.  But  Poulteney 
Sahib  was  already  at  the  door.  He  was  the  subaltern  in 
command  of  the  half  company  of  Sikhs  which  served 
Captain  Phillips  for  an  escort  and  a  guard. 

384 


IN  THE  RESIDENCY 

"You  have  heard  the  news  I  suppose,"  said  Phillips. 

"Yes,"  replied  Poulteney.  He  was  a  wiry  dark 
youth,  with  a  little  black  moustache  and  a  brisk  man- 
ner of  speech.  "I  was  out  on  the  hill  after  chikkor 
when  my  shikari  saw  Shere  Ali  and  his  crowd  coming 
down  the  valley.  He  knew  all  about  it  and  gave  me 
a  general  idea  of  the  situation.  It  seems  the  whole 
country's  rising.  I  should  have  been  here  before,  but 
it  seemed  advisable  to  wait  until  it  was  dark.  I  crawled 
in  between  a  couple  of  guard-posts.  There  is  already  a 
watch  kept  on  the  house,"  and  then  he  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. He  had  caught  sight  of  the  Khan  in  the  back- 
ground. He  had  much  ado  not  to  w^histle  in  his  sur- 
prise.    But  he  refrained  and  merely  bowed. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  complicated  situation,"  he  said  to 
Captain  Phillips.  "Does  Shere  Ali  know?"  and  he 
glanced  towards  the  Khan. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Phillips  grimly.  "But  I  don't 
think  it  will  be  long  before  he  does." 

"And  then  there  will  be  ructions,"  Poulteney  re- 
marked softly.  "Yes,  there  will  be  ructions  of  a 
highly-coloured  and  interesting  description." 

"We  must  do  what  we  can,"  said  Phillips  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  It  isn't  much,  of  course,"  and 
for  the  next  two  hours  the  twenty-five  Sikhs  were  kept 
busy.  The  doors  were  barricaded,  the  shutters  closed 
upon  the  windows  and  loopholed,  and  provisions  were 
brought  in  from  the  outhouses. 

385 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

"  It  is  lucky  we  had  sense  enough  to  lay  in  a  store  of  i 
food,"  said  Philhps.  i 

The  Sikhs  were  divided  into  watches  and  given  their  ; 
appointed  places.  Cartridges  were  doled  out  to  them,  | 
and  the  rest  of  the  ammunition  was  placed  in  a  stone  j 
cellar.  \ 

"That's  all  that  we  can  do,"  said  Phillips.  "So  we  i 
may  as  well  dine."  I 

They  dined  with  the  Khan,  speaking  little  and  with 
ears  on  the  alert,  in  a  room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
At  any  moment  the  summons  might  come  to  surrender 
the  Khan.     They  w^aited  for  a  blow  upon  the  door,  the         I 
sound  of  the  firing  of  a  rifle  or  a  loud  voice  calling  upon         1 
them  from  the  darkness.     But  all  they  heard  was  the         ; 
interminable  babble  of  the  Khan,  as  he  sat  at  the  table         j 
shivering  with  fear  and  unable  to  eat  a  morsel  of  his         1 
food. 

"You  won't  give  me  up!  ...  I  have  been  a  good 
friend  to  the  English.  ...  All  my  life  I  have  been  a        \ 
good  friend  to  the  English."  I 

"We  will  do  what  we  can,"  said  Phillips,  and  he  rose         j 
from  the  table  and  went  up  on  to  the  roof.     He  lay         i 
down  behind  the  low  parapet  and  looked  over  towards 
the  town.     The  house  was  a  poor  place  to  defend.     At        1 
the  back  beyond  the  orchard  the  hill-side  rose  and  com- 
manded the  roof.     On  the  east  of  the  house  a  stream 
ran  by  to  the  great  river  in  the  centre  of  the  valley. 
But  the  bank  of  the  stream  was  a  steep  slippery  bank 

386 


IN  THE  RESIDENCY 

of  clay,  and  less  than  a  hundred  yards  down  a  small 
water-mill  on  the  opposite  side  overlooked  it.  The 
Chiltis  had  only  to  station  a  few  riflemen  in  the  water- 
mill  and  not  a  man  would  be  able  to  climb  down  that 
bank  and  fetch  water  for  the  Residency.  On  the  west 
stood  the  stables  and  the  storehouses,  and  the  bar- 
racks of  the  Sikhs,  a  square  of  buildings  which  would 
afford  fine  cover  for  an  attacking  force.  Only  in 
front  within  the  walls  of  the  forecourt  was  there 
any  open  space  which  the  house  commanded.  It 
was  certainly  a  difficult — nay,  a  hopeless — place  to 
defend. 

But  Captain  Phillips,  as  he  lay  behind  the  parapet, 
began  to  be  puzzled.  Why  did  not  the  attack  begin  ? 
He  looked  over  to  the  city.  It  was  a  place  of  tossing 
lights  and  wild  clamours.  The  noise  of  it  was  carried 
on  the  night  wind  to  Phillips'  ears.  But  about  the 
Residency  there  was  quietude  and  darkness.  Here  and 
there  a  red  fire  glowed  where  the  guards  were  posted; 
now  and  then  a  shower  of  sparks  leaped  up  into  the 
air  as  a  fresh  log  was  thrown  upon  the  ashes;  and  a 
bright  flame  would  glisten  on  the  barrel  of  a  rifle  and 
make  ruddy  the  dark  faces  of  the  watchmen.  But 
there  were  no  preparations  for  an  attack. 

Phillips  looked  across  the  city.  On  the  hill  the 
Palace  was  alive  with  moving  lights — lights  that 
flashed  from  room  to  room  as  though  men  searched 
hurriedly. 

387 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Surely  they  must  already  have  guessed,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself.  The  moving  lights  in  the  high  win- 
dows of  the  Palace  held  his  eyes — so  swiftly  they  flitted 
from  room  to  room,  so  frenzied  seemed  the  hurry  of  the 
search — and  then  to  his  astonishment  one  after  another 
they  began  to  die  out.  It  could  not  be  that  the  search- 
ers were  content  with  the  failure  of  their  search,  that 
the  Palace  was  composing  itself  to  sleep.  In  the  city 
the  clamour  had  died  down;  little  by  little  it  sank  to 
darkness.  There  came  a  freshness  in  the  air.  Though 
there  were  many  hours  still  before  daylight,  the 
night  drew  on  towards  morning.  What  could  it 
mean,  he  wondered  ?  Why  was  the  Residency  left  in 
peace  ? 

And  as  he  wondered,  he  heard  a  scuffling  noise  upon 
the  roof  behind  him.  He  turned  his  head  and  Poul- 
teney  crawled  to  his  side. 

"Will  you  come  down?"  the  subaltern  asked;  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

Phillips  at  once  crept  back  to  the  trap-door.  The 
two  men  descended,  and  Poulteney  led  the  way  into 
the  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  house  where  they  had 
dined.  There  was  no  longer  a  light  in  the  room;  and 
they  stood  for  awhile  in  the  darkness  listening. 

"Where  is  the  Khan?"  whispered  Phillips. 

"I  fixed  up  one  of  the  cellars  for  him,"  Poulteney  re- 
plied in  the  same  tone,  and  as  he  ended  there  came 
suddenly  a  rattle  of  gravel  upon  the  shutter  of  the 

388 


IN  THE  RESIDENCY 

window.     It   was   thrown   cautiously,   but   even   so   it 
startled  Phillips  almost  into  a  cry. 

"That's  it,"  whispered  Poulteney.  "There  is  some- 
one in  the  orchard.  That's  the  third  time  the  gravel 
has  rattled  on  the  shutter.     What  shall  I  do?" 

"Have  you  got  your  revolver?"  asked  Phillips. 

"Yes." 

"Then  stand  by." 

Phillips  carefully  and  noiselessly  opened  the  shutter 
for  an  inch  or  two. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice;  he  asked 
the  question  in  Pushtu,  and  in  Pushtu  a  voice  no  louder 
than  his  own  replied: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Poulteney  Sahib." 

A  startled  exclamation  broke  from  the  subaltern. 
"It's  my  shikari,"  he  said,  and  thrusting  open  the 
shutter  he  leaned  out. 

"Well,  what  news  do  you  bring?"  he  asked;  and  at 
the  answer  Captain  Phillips  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  entered  into  his  twilit  hall  had  a  throb  of  hope. 
The  expeditionary  troops  from  Nowshera,  advancing  by 
forced  marches,  were  already  close  to  the  borders  of 
Chiltistan.  News  had  been  brought  to  the  Palace  that 
evening.  Shere  Ali  had  started  with  every  man  he 
could  collect  to  take  up  the  position  where  he  meant 
to  give  battle. 

"I  must  hurry  or  I  shall  be  late,*'  said  the  shikari, 
and  be  crawled  away  through  the  orchard. 

389 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Phillips  closed  the  shutter  again  and  lit  the  lamp. 
The  news  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  But  the  morn- 
ing broke  over  a  city  of  women  and  old  men.  Only  the 
watchmen  remained  at  their  posts  about  the  Residency 
grounds. 


390 


CHArTER  XXXIV 


ONE   OF   THE   LITTLE   WARS 


The  campaign  which  Shore  AH  directed  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Chihistan  is  now  matter  of  history,  and  may  be 
read  of,  by  whoso  wills,  in  the  Blue-books  and  des- 
patches of  the  time.  Those  documents,  with  their 
paragraphs  and  diaries  and  bare  records  of  facts,  have 
a  dry-as-dust  look  about  them  which  their  contents  very 
often  belie.  And  the  reader  will  not  rise  from  the  story 
of  this  little  war  without  carrying  away  an  impression 
of  wild  fury  and  reckless  valour  which  will  long  retain 
its  colours  in  his  mind.  Moreover,  there  was  more 
than  fury  to  distinguish  it.  Shere  Ali  turned  against 
his  enemies  the  lessons  which  they  had  taught  him; 
and  a  military  skill  was  displayed  which  delayed  the 
result  and  thereby  endangered  the  position  of  the  Brit- 
ish troops.  For  though  at  the  first  the  neighbouring 
tribes  and  states,  the  little  village  republics  which 
abound  in  those  parts,  waited  upon  the  event  as  Phil- 
lips had  foretold,  nevertheless  as  the  days  passed,  and 
the  event  still  hung  in  the  balance,  they  took  heart  of 
grace  and  gathered  behind  the  troops  to  destroy  their 
communications  and  cut  off  their  supplies. 

Dick  Linforth  wrote  three  letters  to  his  mother,  who 

391 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

was  living  over  again  the  suspense  and  terror  which 
had  fallen  to  her  lot  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  The 
first  letter  was  brought  to  the  house  under  the  Sussex 
Downs  at  twilight  on  an  evening  of  late  autumn,  and 
as  she  recognized  the  writing  for  her  son's  a  sudden 
weakness  overcame  her,  and  her  hand  so  shook  that 
she  could  hardly  tear  off  the  envelope. 

"  I  am  unhurt,"  he  wrote  at  the  beginning  of  the  let- 
ter, and  tears  of  gratitude  ran  down  her  cheeks  as  she 
read  the  words.  "Shere  Ali,"  he  continued,  "occupied 
a  traditional  position  of  defence  in  a  narrow  valley. 
The  Kohara  river  ran  between  steep  cliffs  through  the 
bed  of  the  valley,  and,  as  usual,  above  the  cliffs  on 
each  side  there  were  cultivated  maidans  or  plateaus. 
Over  the  right-hand  maidan,  the  road — our  road — ran 
to  a  fortified  village.  Behind  the  village,  a  deep  gorge, 
or  nullah,  as  we  call  them  in  these  parts,  descending 
from  a  side  glacier  high  up  at  the  back  of  the  hills  on 
our  right,  cut  clean  across  the  valley,  like  a  great  gash. 
The  sides  of  the  nullah  were  extraordinarily  precipitous, 
and  on  the  edge  furthest  from  us  stone  sangars  were 
already  built  as  a  second  line  of  defence.  Shere  Ali 
occupied  the  village  in  front  of  the  nullah,  and  we  en- 
camped six  miles  down  the  valley,  meaning  to  attack 
in  the  morning.  But  the  Chiltis  abandoned  their  tra- 
ditional method  of  fighting  behind  walls  and  standing 
on  the  defence.  A  shot  rang  out  on  the  outskirts  of 
our  camp  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  in  a 

392 


ONE  OF  THE  LITTLE  WARS 

moment  they  were  upon  us.  It  was  reckoned  that  there 
were  fifteen  thousand  of  them  engaged  from  first  to  last 
in  this  battle,  whereas  we  were  under  two  thousand 
combatants.  We  had  seven  hundred  of  the  Imperial 
Service  troops,  four  companies  of  Gurkhas,  three  hun- 
dred men  of  the  Punjab  Infantry,  three  companies  of 
the  Oxfordshires,  besides  cavalry,  mountain  batteries 
and  Irregulars.  The  attack  was  unexpected.  We  be- 
strode the  road,  but  Shere  AH  brought  his  men  in  by 
an  old  disused  Buddhist  road,  running  over  the  hills  on 
our  right  hand,  and  in  the  darkness  he  forced  his  way 
through  our  lines  into  a  little  village  in  the  heart  of  our 
position.  He  seized  the  bazaar  and  held  it  all  that 
day,  a  few  houses  built  of  stone  and  with  stones  upon 
the  roof  which  made  them  proof  against  our  shells. 
Meanwhile  the  slopes  on  both  sides  of  the  valley  were 
thronged  with  Chiltis.  They  were  armed  with  jezails 
and  good  rifles  stolen  from  our  troops,  and  they  had 
some  old  cannon — sher  bachas  as  they  are  called.  Al- 
together they  caused  us  great  loss,  and  towards  evening 
things  began  to  look  critical.  They  had  fortified  and 
barricaded  the  bazaar,  and  kept  up  a  constant  fire  from 
it.  At  last  a  sapper  named  Manders,  with  half  a  dozen 
Gurkhas  behind  him,  ran  across  the  open  space,  and 
while  the  Gurklias  shot  through  the  loop  holes  and  kept 
the  fire  down,  Manders  fixed  his  gun  cotton  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  door  and  lighted  the  fuse.  He  was  shot 
twice,  once  in  the  leg,  once  in  the  shoulder,  but  he 

393 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

managed  to  crawl  along  the  wall  of  the  houses  out  cf 
reach  of  the  explosion,  and  the  door  was  blown  m.  We 
drove  them  out  of  that  house  and  finally  cleared  the 
bazaar  after  some  desperate  fighting.  Shere  Ali  was 
in  the  thick  of  it.  He  was  dressed  trom  head  to  foot 
in  green,  and  was  a  conspicuous  mark.  But  he  escaped 
unhurt.  The  enemy  drew  ofi  for  the  night,  and  we  lay 
down  as  we  were,  dog-tired  and  with  no  fires  to  cook 
any  food.  They  came  on  again  in  the  morning,  clouds 
of  them,  but  we  held  them  back  with  the  gatlings  and 
the  maxims,  and  towards  evening  they  again  retired. 
To-day  nothing  has  happened  except  the  arrival  of  an 
envoy  with  an  arrogant  letter  from  Shere  Ali,  asking 
why  we  are  straying  inside  the  borders  of  his  country 
'like  camels  without  nose-rings.'  We  shall  show  him 
why  to-morrow.  For  to-morrow  we  attack  the  fort  on 
the  maidan.  Good-night,  mother.  I  am  very  tired." 
And  the  last  sentence  took  away  from  Sybil  Linforth  all 
the  comfort  the  letter  had  brought  her.  Dick  had  be- 
gun very  well.  He  could  have  chosen  no  better  words 
to  meet  her  eyes  at  the  commencement  than  those  three, 
"I  am  unhurt."  But  he  could  have  chosen  no  worse 
with  which  to  end  it.  For  they  had  ended  the  last  letter 
which  her  husband  had  written  to  her,  and  her  mind 
flew  back  to  that  day,  and  was  filled  wuth  fore-bodings. 
But  by  the  next  mail  came  another  letter  in  his  hand, 
describing  how  the  fort  had  been  carried  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet,  and  Shere  Ali  driven  back  behind  the  nul- 

394 


ONE  OF  THE  LITTLE  WARS 

lah.  This,  however,  was  the  strongest  position  of  all, 
and  the  most  difficult  to  force.  The  road  which  wound 
down  behind  the  fort  into  the  bed  of  the  nullah  and  zig- 
zagged up  again  on  the  far  side  had  been  broken  away, 
the  cliffs  were  unscaleable,  and  the  stone  sangars  on 
the  brow  proof  against  shell  and  bullet.  Shere  All's 
force  was  disposed  behind  these  stone  breastworks  right 
across  the  valley  on  both  sides  of  the  river.  For  three 
weeks  the  British  force  sat  in  front  of  this  position,  now 
trying  to  force  it  by  the  river-bed,  now  under  cover  of 
night  trying  to  repair  the  broken  road.  But  the  Chiltis 
kept  good  watch,  and  at  the  least  sound  of  a  pick  in 
the  gulf  below  avalanches  of  rocks  and  stones  would  be 
hurled  down  the  cliff-sides.  Moreover,  wherever  the 
cliffs  seemed  likely  to  afford  a  means  of  ascent  Shere 
Ali  had  directed  the  water-channels,  and  since  the  nights 
were  frosty  these  points  were  draped  with  ice  as  smooth 
as  glass.  Finally,  however,  Mrs.  Linforth  received  a 
third  letter  which  set  her  heart  beating  with  pride,  and 
for  the  moment  turned  all  her  fears  to  joy. 

"The  war  is  over,''  it  began.  "The  position  was 
turned  this  morning.  The  Chiltis  are  in  full  flight 
towards  Kohara  with  the  cavalry  ujx)n  their  heels. 
They  are  throwing  away  their  arms  as  they  run,  so  that 
they  may  be  thought  not  to  have  taken  part  in  the 
fight.  We  follow  to-morrow.  It  is  not  yet  known 
whether  Shere  Ali  is  alive  or  dead  and,  mother,  it  was  I 
— yes,  I  your  son,  who  found  out  the  road  by  which 

395 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

the  position  could  be  turned.  I  had  crept  up  the  nul- 
lah time  after  time  towards  the  glacier  at  its  head, 
thinking  that  if  ever  the  position  was  to  be  taken  it 
must  be  turned  at  that  end.  At  last  I  thought  that  I 
had  made  out  a  way  up  the  cliffs.  There  were  some 
gullies  and  a  ledge  and  then  some  rocks  which  seemed 
practicable,  and  which  would  lead  one  out  on  the  brow 
of  the  cliff  just  between  the  two  last  sangars  on  the 
enemy's  left.  I  didn't  write  a  word  about  it  to  you 
before.  I  was  so  afraid  I  might  be  wrong.  I  got  leave 
and  used  to  creep  up  the  nullah  in  the  darkness  to  the 
tongue  of  the  glacier  with  a  little  telescope  and  lie 
hidden  all  day  behind  a  boulder  working  out  the  way, 
until  darkness  came  again  and  allowed  me  to  get  back 
to  camp.  At  last  I  felt  sure,  and  I  suggested  the  plan 
to  Ralston  the  Political  Officer,  who  carried  it  to  the 
General-in-Command.  The  General  himself  came  out 
with  me,  and  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  cliffs  were  so 
steep  just  beneath  the  sangars  that  we  might  take  the 
men  who  garrisoned  them  by  surprise,  and  that  in  any 
case  they  could  not  fire  upon  us,  while  sharpshooters 
from  the  cliffs  on  our  side  of  the  nullah  could  hinder 
the  enemy  from  leaving  their  sangars  and  rolling  down 
stones.  I  was  given  permission  to  try  and  a  hundred 
Gurkhas  to  try  w^ith.  We  left  camp  that  night  at  half- 
past  seven,  and  crept  up  the  nullah  with  our  blankets 
to  the  foot  of  the  climb,  and  there  we  waited  till  the 
morning." 

396 


ONE  OF  THE  LITTLE  WARS 

The  years  of  training  to  which  Linforth  had  bent 
himself  with  a  definite  aim  began,  in  a  word,  to  produce 
their  results.  In  the  early  morning  he  led  the  way  up 
the  steep  face  of  cliffs,  and  the  Gurkhas  followed.  One 
of  the  sharpshooters  lying  ready  on  the  British  side  of 
the  nullah  said  that  they  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a 
black  train  of  ants.  There  were  thirteen  hundred  feet 
of  rock  to  be  scaled,  and  for  nine  hundred  of  it  thev 
climbed  undetected.  Then  from  a  sangar  lower  down 
the  line  where  the  cliffs  of  the  nullah  curved  outwards 
they  were  seen  and  the  alarm  was  given.  But  for 
a  while  the  defenders  of  the  threatened  position  did  not 
understand  the  danger,  and  when  they  did  a  hail  of 
bullets  kept  them  in  their  shelters.  Linforth  followed 
by  his  Gurkhas  was  seen  to  reach  the  top  of  the  cliffs 
and  charge  the  sangars  from  the  rear.  The  defenders 
were  driven  out  and  bayoneted,  the  sangars  seized,  and 
the  Chilti  force  enfiladed  while  reinforcements  clam- 
bered in  support.  ''In  three  hours  the  position,  which 
for  eighteen  days  had  resisted  every  attack  and  held 
the  British  force  immobile,  was  in  our  hands.  The 
way  is  clear  in  front  of  us.  Manders  is  recommended 
for  the  Victoria  Cross.  I  believe  that  I  am  for  the 
D.S.O.     And  above  all  the  Road  goes  on!" 

Thus  characteristically  the  letter  was  concluded. 
Linforth  wrote  it  with  a  flush  of  pride  and  a  great  joy. 
He  had  no  doubt  now  that  he  would  be  appointed  to 
the  Road.     Congratulations  were  showered  upon  him. 

397 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

Down  upon  the  plains,  Violet  would  hear  of  his  achieve- 
ment and  perhaps  claim  proudly  and  joyfully  some 
share  in  it  herself.  His  heart  leaped  at  the  thought. 
The  world  was  going  very  well  for  Dick  Linforth  that 
night.  But  that  is  only  one  side  of  the  picture.  Lin- 
forth had  no  thoughts  to  spare  upon  Shere  Ali.  If  he 
had  had  a  thought,  it  would  not  have  been  one  of  pity. 
Yet  that  unhappy  Prince,  with  despair  and  humiliation 
gnawing  at  his  heart,  broken  now  beyond  all  hope, 
stricken  in  his  fortune  as  sorely  as  in  his  love,  was  flee- 
ing with  a  few  devoted  followers  through  the  darkness. 
He  passed  through  Kohara  at  daybreak  of  the  second 
morning  after  the  battle  had  been  lost,  and  stopping 
only  to  change  horses,  galloped  off  to  the  north. 

Two  hours  later  Captain  Phillips  mounted  on  to  the 
roof  of  his  house  and  saw  that  the  guards  were  no 
longer  at  their  posts. 


398 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  LETTER  FROM  VIOLET 

Within  a  week  the  Khan  was  back  in  his  Palace,  the 
smoke  rose  once  more  above  the  roof-tops  of  Kohara, 
and  a  smihng  shikari  presented  himself  before  Poul- 
teney  Sahib  in  the  grounds  of  the  Residency. 

"It  was  a  good  fight,  Sahib,"  he  declared,  grinning 
from  ear  to  ear  at  the  recollection  of  the  battles.  "A 
very  good  fight.  We  nearly  won.  I  was  in  the  bazaar 
all  that  day.  Yes,  it  was  a  near  thing.  We  made  a 
mistake  about  those  cliffs,  we  did  not  think  they  could 
be  climbed.  It  was  a  good  fight,  but  it  is  over.  Now 
when  will  your  Excellency  go  shooting  ?  I  have  heard 
of  some  markhor  on  the  hill." 

Poulteney  Sahib  stared,  speechless  with  indignation. 
Then  he  burst  out  laughing: 

"You  old  rascal!  You  dare  to  come  here  and  ask 
me  to  take  you  out  when  I  go  shooting,  and  only  a 
week  ago  you  were  fighting  against  us." 

"But  the  fight  is  all  over,  Excellency,"  the  Shikari 
explained.  "Now  all  is  as  it  was  and  we  will  go  out 
after  the  markhor."  The  idea  that  any  ill-feeling 
could  remain  after  so  good  a  fight  was  one  quite  be- 
yond the  shikari's  conception.      "Besides,"  he   said, 

399 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"it  was  I  who  threw  the  gravel  at  your  Excellency's 
windows." 

"Why,  that's  true,"  said  Poulteney,  and  a  window 
was  thrown  up  behind  him.  Ralston's  head  appeared 
at  the  window. 

"You  had  better  take  him,"  the  Chief  Commissioner 
said.  "Go  out  with  him  for  a  couple  of  days,"  and 
when  the  shikari  had  retired,  he  explained  the  reason 
of  his  advice. 

"  That  fellow  will  talk  to  you,  and  you  might  find  out 
which  way  Shere  Ali  went.  He  wasn't  among  the  dead, 
so  far  as  we  can  discover,  and  I  think  he  has  been 
headed  off  from  Afghanistan.  But  it  is  important  that 
we  should  know.  So  long  as  he  is  free,  there  will 
always  be  possibilities  of  trouble." 

In  every  direction,  indeed,  inquiries  were  being  made. 
But  for  the  moment  Shere  Ali  had  got  clear  away. 
Meanwhile  the  Khan  waited  anxiously  in  the  Palace 
to  know  what  was  going  to  happen  to  him;  and  he 
waited  in  some  anxiety.  It  fell  to  Ralston  to  inform 
him  in  durbar  in  the  presence  of  his  nobles  and  the 
chief  officers  of  the  British  force  that  the  Government 
of  India  had  determined  to  grant  him  a  pension  and  a 
residence  rent-free  at  Jellundur. 

"The  Government  of  India  will  rule  Chiltistan," 
said  Ralston.     "The  word  has  been  spoken." 

He  went  out  from  the  Palace  and  down  the  hill 
towards  the  place  where  the  British  forces  were  en- 

400 


A  LETTER  FROM  VIOLET 

camped  just  outside  the  city.  When  he  came  to  the 
tents,  he  asked  for  Mr.  Linforth,  and  was  conducted 
through  the  Hues.  He  found  Linforth  sitting  alone 
within  his  tent  on  his  camp  chair,  and  knew  from  his 
attitude  that  some  evil  thing  had  befallen  him.  Lin- 
forth rose  and  offered  Ralston  his  chair,  and  as  he  did 
so  a  letter  fluttered  from  his  lap  to  the  ground.  There 
were  two  sheets,  and  Linforth  stooped  quickly  and 
picked  them  up. 

"  Don't  move,"  said  Ralston.  "  This  will  do  for  me," 
and  he  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  camp  bed.  Lin- 
forth sat  down  again  on  his  chair  and,  as  though  he  were 
almost  unaware  of  Ralston's  presence,  he  smoothed  out 
upon  his  knee  the  sheets  of  the  letter.  Ralston  could 
not  but  observe  that  they  were  crumpled  and  creased, 
as  though  they  had  been  clenched  and  twisted  in  Lin- 
forth's  hand.  Then  Linforth  raised  his  head,  and 
suddenly  thrust  the  letter  into  his  pocket. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke  in  a 
spiridess  voice.  "The  post  has  just  come  in.  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  which— interested  me.  Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ralston.  "We  have  sure  news  at  last. 
Shere  Ali  has  fled  to  the  north.  The  opportunity  you 
asked  for  at  Peshawur  has  come." 

Linforth  was  silent  for  a  little  while.     Then  he  said 

slowly : 

"I  see.     I  am  to  go  in  pursuit?" 

401 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"Yes!" 

It  seemed  that  Linforth's  animosity  against  Shere  Ali 
had  died  out.  Ralston  watched  him  keenly  from  the 
bed.  Something  had  blunted  the  edge  of  the  tool  just 
when  the  time  had  come  to  use  it.  He  threw  an  extra 
earnestness  into  his  voice. 

"You  have  got  to  do  more  than  go  in  pursuit  of  him. 
You  have  got  to  find  him.  You  have  got  to  bring  him 
back  as  your  prisoner." 

Linforth  nodded  his  head. 

"He  has  gone  north,  you  say?" 

"Yes.  Somewhere  in  Central  Asia  you  will  find 
him,"  and  as  Linforth  looked  up  startled,  Ralston  con- 
tinued calmly,  "Yes,  it's  a  large  order,  I  know,  but  it's 
not  quite  so  large  as  it  looks.  The  trade-routes,  the 
only  possible  roads,  are  not  so  very  many.  No  man 
can  keep  his  comings  and  goings  secret  for  very  long 
in  that  country.  You  will  soon  get  wind  of  him,  and 
when  you  do  you  must  never  let  him  shake  you 
off." 

"Very  well,"  said  Linforth,  listlessly.  "When  do  I 
start?" 

Ralston  plunged  into  the  details  of  the  expedition 
and  told  him  the  number  of  men  he  was  to  take  with 
him. 

"You  had  better  go  first  into  Chinese  Turkestan," 
he  said.  "There  are  a  number  of  Hindu  merchants 
settled  there — we  will  give  you  letters  to  them.     Some 

402 


A  LETTER  FROM  VIOLET 

of  them  will  be  able  to  put  you  on  the  track  of  Shere 
Ali.  You  will  have  to  round  him  up  into  a  corner,  I 
expect.  And  whatever  you  do,  head  him  off  Russian 
territory.  For  we  w^ant  him.  We  want  him  brought 
back  into  Kohara.  It  will  have  a  great  effect  on 
this  country.  It  will  show  them  that  the  Sirkar 
can  even  pick  a  man  out  of  the  bazaars  of  Central 
Asia  if  he  is  rash  enough  to  stand  up  against  it  in 
revolt." 

*'  That  will  be  rather  humiliating  for  Shere  Ali,"  said 
Linforth,  after  a  short  pause;  and  Ralston  sat  up  on 
the  bed.  What  in  the  world,  he  wondered,  could  Lin- 
forth have  read  in  his  letter,  so  to  change  him?  He 
was  actually  sympathising  with  Shere  Ali — he  who  had 
been  hottest  in  his  anger. 

"Shere  Ali  should  have  thought  of  that  before," 
Ralston  said  sharply,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  rely 
upon  you,  Linforth.  It  may  take  you  a  year.  It  may 
take  you  only  a  few  months.  But  I  rely  upon  you  to 
bring  Shere  Ali  back.  And  when  you  do,"  he  added, 
with  a  smile,  "there's  the  road  waiting  for  you." 

But  for  once  even  that  promise  failed  to  stir  Dick 
Linforth  into  enthusiasm. 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  he  said  quietly;  and  with  that 
Ralston  left  him. 

Linforth  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  once  more  took 
out  the  crumpled  letter.  He  had  walked  with  the 
Gods  of  late,  like  one  immune  from  earthly  troubles. 

403 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

But  his  bad  hour  had  been  awaiting  him.  The  letter 
was  signed  Violet.  He  read  it  through  again,  and  this 
was  what  he  read: 

''This  is  the  most  difficult  letter  I  have  ever  written. 
For  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  make  you  understand  at  all 
just  how  things  are.  But  somehow  or  other  I  do  feel 
that  this  is  going  to  hurt  you  frightfully,  and,  oh,  Dick, 
do  forgive  me.  But  if  it  will  console  or  help  at  all, 
know  this,"  and  the  words  were  underlined — as  indeed 
were  many  words  in  Violet  Oliver's  letters — "that  1 
never  was  good  enough  for  you  and  you  are  well  rid  of 
me.  I  told  you  what  I  was,  didn't  I,  Dick  ? — a  foolish 
lover  of  beautiful  things.  I  tried  to  tell  you  the  whole 
truth  that  last  evening  in  the  garden  at  Peshawur,  but 
you  wouldn't  let  me,  Dick.  And  I  must  tell  you  now. 
I  never  sent  the  pearl  necklace  back,  Dick,  although  I 
told  you  that  I  did.  I  meant  to  send  it  back  the  night 
when  I  parted  from  the  Prince.  I  packed  it  up  and 
put  it  ready.  But — oh,  Dick,  how  can  I  tell  you  ? — I 
had  had  an  imitation  one  made  just  like  it  for  safety, 
and  in  the  night  I  got  up  and  changed  them.  I  couldn't 
^rpart  with  it — I  sent  back  the  false  one.  Now  you 
know  me,  Dick!  But  even  now  perhaps  you  don't. 
You  remember  the  night  in  Peshawur,  the  terrible  night  ? 
Mr.  Ralston  wondered  why,  after  complaining  that  my 
window  was  unbolted,  I  unbolted  it  myself.  I>et  me 
tell  you,  Dick!  Mr.  Ralston  said  that  *  theft'  was  the 
explanation.     Well,   after  I   tried   to   tell  you   in   the 

404 


A  LETTER  FROiAI  VIOLET 

garden  and  you  would  not  listen,  I  thought  of  what  he 
had  said.  I  thought  it  would  be  such  an  easy  way  out 
of  it,  if  the  thief  should  come  in  when  I  was  asleep  and 
steal  the  necklace  and  go  away  again  before  I  woke  up. 
I  don*t  know  how  I  brought  myself  to  do  it.  It  was  you, 
Dick!  I  had  just  left  you,  I  was  full  of  thoughts  of  you. 
So  I  slipped  back  the  bolt  myself.  But  you  see,  Dick, 
what  I  am.  Although  I  wanted  to  send  that  necklace 
back,  I  couldn*t,  /  simply  couldn't^  and  it's  the  same  with 
other  things.  I  would  be  very,  very  glad  to  know  that 
I  could  be  happy  with  you,  dear,  and  live  your  life. 
But  I  know  that  I  couldn't,  that  it  wouldn't  last,  that 
I  should  be  longing  for  other  things,  foolish  things  and 
vanities.  Again,  Dick,  you  are  well  rid  of  a  silly  vain 
woman,  and  I  wish  you  all  happiness  in  that  riddance. 
I  never  would  have  made  you  a  good  wife.  Nor  will  I 
make  any  man  a  good  wife.  I  have  not  the  sense  of  a 
dog.  I  know  it,  too!  That's  the  sad  part  of  it  all, 
Dick.  Forgive  me,  and  thanks,  a  thousand  thanks, 
for  the  honour  you  ever  did  me  in  wanting  me  at  all." 
Then  followed — it  seemed  to  Linforth — a  cry.  "Won't 
you  forgive  me,  dear,  dear  Dick!"  and  after  these  words 
her  name,  "Violet." 

But  even  so  the  letter  was  not  ended.  A  postscript 
was  added: 

"I  shall  always  think  of  the  little  dreams  we  had  to- 
gether of  our  future,  and  regret  that  I  couldn't  know 
them.     That  will  always  be  in  my  mind.     Remember 

405 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

that!  Perhaps  some  day  we  will  meet.  Oh,  Dick, 
good-bye!" 

Dick  sat  with  that  letter  before  his  eyes  for  a  long 
while.  Violet  had  told  him  that  he  could  be  hard,  but 
he  was  not  hard  to  her.  He  could  read  between  the 
lines,  he  understood  the  struggle  which  she  had  had 
with  herself,  he  recognised  the  suffering  which  the 
letter  had  caused  her.  He  was  touched  to  pity,  to  a 
greater  humanity.  He  had  shown  it  in  his  forecasts  of 
the  humiliation  which  would  befall  Shere  Ali  when  he 
was  brought  back  a  prisoner  to  Kohara.  Linforth,  in  a 
word,  had  shed  what  was  left  of  his  boyhood.  He  had 
come  to  recognise  that  life  was  never  all  black  and  all 
white.  He  tore  up  the  letter  into  tiny  fragments.  It 
required  no  answer. 

"Everything  is  just  wrong,"  he  said  to  himself, 
gently,  as  he  thought  over  Shere  Ali,  Violet,  himself. 
"Everything  is  just  not  what  it  might  have  been." 

And  a  few  days  later  he  started  northwards  for 
Turkestan. 


406 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


"the  little  less  " 


Three  years  passed  before  Linforth  returned  on  leave 
to  England.  He  landed  at  Marseilles  towards  the  end 
of  September,  travelled  to  his  home,  and  a  fortnight 
later  came  up  from  Sussex  for  a  few  days  to  London. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  the  autumn  season.  People 
were  returning  to  town.  Theatres  were  re-opening  with 
new  plays;  and  a  fellow-officer,  who  had  a  couple  of 
stalls  for  the  first  production  of  a  comedy  about  which 
public  curiosity  was  whetted,  meeting  Linforth  in  the 
hall  of  his  club,  suggested  that  they  should  go  to- 
gether. 

"I  shall  be  glad,"  said  Linforth.  "I  always  go  to 
the  play  with  the  keenest  of  pleasure.  The  tuning-up 
of  the  orchestra  and  the  rising  of  the  curtain  are  events 
to  me.  And,  to  be  honest,  I  have  never  been  to  a 
first  night  before.  Let  us  do  the  thing  handsomely  and 
dine  together  before  we  go.  It  will  be  my  last  excite- 
ment in  London  for  another  three  or  four  years,  I 
expect." 

The  two  young  men  dined  together  accordingly  at 
one  of  the  great  restaurants.  Linforth,  fresh  from  the 
deep  valleys  of  Chiltistan,  was  elated  by  the  lights,  the 

407 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

neighbourhood  of  people  delicately  dressed,  and  the 
subdued  throb  of  music  from  muted  violins. 

"I  am  the  little  boy  at  the  bright  shop  window,"  he 
said  with  a  laugh,  while  his  eyes  wandered  round  the 
room.  "I  look  in  through  the  glass  from  the  pave- 
ment outside,  and " 

His  voice  halted  and  stopped;  and  when  he  resumed 
he  spoke  without  his  former  gaiety.  Indeed,  the  change 
of  note  was  more  perceptible  than  the  brief  pause.  His 
friend  conjectured  that  the  words  which  Linforth  now 
used  were  not  those  which  he  had  intended  to  speak  a 
moment  ago. 

" and,^'  he  said  slowly,  "I  wonder  what  sort  of 

fairyland  it  is  actually  to  live  and  breathe  in?" 

While  he  spoke,  his  eyes  were  seeking  an  answer  to 
his  question,  and  seeking  it  in  one  particular  quarter. 
A  few  tables  away,  and  behind  Linforth's  friend  and  a 
little  to  his  right,  sat  Violet  Oliver.  She  was  with  a 
party  of  six  or  eight  people,  of  whom  Linforth  took  no 
note.  He  had  eyes  only  for  her.  Bitterness  had  long 
since  ceased  to  colour  his  thoughts  of  Violet  Oliver. 
And  though  he  had  not  forgotten,  there  was  no  longer 
any  living  pain  in  his  memories.  So  much  had  inter- 
vened since  he  had  walked  with  her  in  the  rose-garden 
at  Peshawur — so  many  new  experiences,  so  much  com- 
pulsion of  hard  endeavour.  When  his  recollections 
went  back  to  the  rose-garden  at  Peshawur,  as  at  rare 
times  they  would,  he  was  only  conscious  at  the  worst 

408 


"THE  LITTLE  LESS  " 

that  his  life  was  rather  dull  when  tested  by  the  high 
aspirations  of  his  youth.  There  was  less  music  in  it 
than  he  had  thought  to  hear.  Instead  of  swinging  in 
a  soldier's  march  to  the  sound  of  drums  and  bugles 
down  the  road,  it  walked  sedately.  To  use  his  own 
phrase,  everything  was — just  not.  There  was  no  more 
in  it  than  that.  And  indeed  at  the  first  it  was  almost 
an  effort  for  him  to  realise  that  between  him  and  this 
woman  whom  he  now  actually  saw,  after  three  years, 
there  had  once  existed  a  bond  of  passion.  But,  as  he 
continued  to  look,  the  memories  took  substance,  and 
he  began  to  wonder  whether  in  her  fairyland  it  was 
*'just  not,"  too.  She  had  what  she  had  wanted — that 
was  clear.  A  collar  of  pearls,  fastened  with  a  diamond 
bow,  encircled  her  throat.  A  great  diamond  flashed 
upon  her  bosom.  Was  she  satisfied  ?  Did  no  memory 
of  the  short  week  during  which  she  had  longed  to  tread 
the  road  of  fire  and  stones,  the  road  of  high  endeavour, 
trouble  her  content? 

Linforth  was  curious.  She  was  not  paying  much 
heed  to  the  talk  about  the  table.  She  took  no  part  in 
it,  but  sat  with  her  head  a  little  raised,  her  eyes  dreamily 
fiixed  upon  nothing  in  particular.  But  Linforth  remem- 
bered with  a  smile  that  there  was  no  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  that  not  unusual  attitude  of  hers.  It  did 
not  follow  that  she  was  bored  or  filled  with  discontent. 
She  might  simply  be  oblivious.  A  remark  made  about 
her  by  some  forgotten  person  who  had  asked  a  ques- 

409 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

tion  and  received  no  answer  came  back  to  Linforth  and 
called  a  smile  to  his  face.  "You  might  imagine  that 
Violet  Oliver  is  thinking  of  the  angels.  She  is  prob- 
ably considering  whether  she  should  run  upstairs  and 
powder  her  nose." 

Linforth  began  to  look  for  other  signs;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  world  had  gone  well  with  her.  She  had 
a  kind  of  settled  look,  almost  a  sleekness,  as  though 
anxiety  never  came  near  to  her  pillow.  She  had 
married,  surely,  and  married  well.  The  jewels  she 
wore  were  evidence,  and  Linforth  began  to  speculate 
which  of  the  party  was  her  husband.  They  were  young 
people  who  were  gathered  at  the  table.  In  her  liking  for 
young  people  about  her  she  had  not  changed.  Of  the 
men  no  one  was  noticeable,  but  Violet  Oliver,  as  he 
remembered,  would  hardly  have  chosen  a  noticeable 
man.  She  would  have  chosen  someone  with  great 
wealth  and  no  ambitions,  one  who  was  young  enough 
to  ask  nothing  more  from  the  world  than  Violet  Oliver, 
who  would  not,  in  a  word,  trouble  her  with  a  career. 
She  might  have  chosen  anyone  of  her  companions. 
And  then  her  eyes  travelled  round  the  room  and  met 
his. 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  him,  not  seeing  him  at  all. 
In  a  moment  or  two  consciousness  came  to  her.  Her 
brows  went  up  in  astonishment.  Then  she  smiled  and 
waved  her  hand  to  him  across  the  room — gaily,  without 
a  trace   of  embarrassment,   without   even   the   colour 

410 


"THE   LITTLE  LESS  '' 

rising  to  her  cheeks.  Thus  might  one  greet  a  casual 
friend  of  yesterday.  Linforth  bethought  him,  with  a 
sudden  sting  of  bitterness  which  surprised  him  by  its 
sharpness,  of  the  postscript  in  the  last  of  the  few  letters 
she  had  written  to  him.  That  letter  was  still  vivid 
enough  in  his  memories  for  him  to  be  able  to  see  the 
pages,  to  recognise  the  writing,  and  read  the  sentences. 

"I  shall  always  think  of  the  little  dreams  we  had  to- 
gether of  our  future,  and  regret  that  I  couldn't  know 
them.  That  will  always  be  in  my  mind.  Remember 
that!" 

How  much  of  that  postscript  remained  true,  he  won- 
dered, after  these  three  years.  Very  little,  it  seemed. 
Linforth  fell  to  speculating,  with  an  increasing  interest, 
as  to  which  of  the  men  at  her  table  she  had  mated  with. 
Was  it  the  tall  youth  with  the  commonplace  good  looks 
opposite  to  her  ?  Linforth  detected  now  a  certain  flashi- 
ness  in  his  well  grooming  which  he  had  not  noticed  be- 
fore. Or  was  it  the  fat  insignificant  young  man  three 
seats  away  from  her? 

A  rather  gross  young  person,  Linforth  thought  him — 
the  offspring  of  some  provincial  tradesman  who  had 
retired  with  a  fortune  and  made  a  gentleman  of  his 
son. 

"Well,  no  doubt  he  has  the  dibs,"  I>inforth  found 
himself  saying  with  an  unexpected  irritation,  as  he  con- 
templated the  possible  husband.  And  his  friend  broke 
in  upon  his  thoughts. 

411 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"If  you  are  going  to  eat  any  dinner,  Linfortli,  It 
might  be  as  well  to  begin;  we  shall  have  to  go  very 
shortlv." 

Linforth  fell  to  accordingly.  His  appetite  was  not 
impaired,  he  was  happy  to  notice,  but,  on  the  whole, 
he  wished  he  had  not  seen  Violet  Oliver.  This  was 
his  last  night  in  London.  She  might  so  easily  have 
come  to-morrow  instead,  when  he  would  already  have 
departed  from  the  town.     It  was  a  pity. 

He  did  not  look  towards  her  table  any  more,  but  the 
moment  her  party  rose  he  was  nevertheless  aware  of 
its  movement.  He  was  conscious  that  she  passed 
through  the  restaurant  towards  the  lobby  at  no  great 
distance  from  himself.  He  was  aware,  though  he  did 
not  raise  his  head,  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  w^aiter  brought  to  him  a 
folded  piece  of  paper.     He  opened  it  and  read: 

"  Dick,  won't  you  speak  to  me  at  all  ?  I  am  waiting. 
— Violet." 

Linforth  looked  up  at  his  friend. 

"There  is  someone  I  must  go  and  speak  to,"  he  said. 
"I  won't  be  five  minutes." 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  out  of  the  res- 
taurant. His  heart  was  beating  rather  fast,  but  it  was 
surely  curiosity  which  produced  that  effect.  Curiosity 
to  know  whether  with  her  things  were — just  not,  too. 
He  passed  across  the  hall  and  up  the  steps.  On  the 
top  of  the  steps  she  was  waiting  for  him.     She  had  her 

412 


^'THE  LITTLE  LESS  " 

cloak  upon  her  shoulders,  and  in  the  background  the 
gross  young  man  waited  for  her  without  interposing— 
the  very  image  of  a  docile  husband. 

"  Dick,"  she  said  quickly,  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him,  "I  did  so  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  have  to  rush 
off  to  a  theatre.  So  I  sent  in  for  you.  AVhy  wouldn't 
you  speak  to  me?" 

That  he  should  have  any  reason  to  avoid  her  she 
seemed  calmly  and  completely  unconscious.  And  so 
unembarrassed  was  her  manner  that  even  with  her 
voice  in  his  ears  and  her  face  before  him,  delicate  and 
pretty  as  of  old,  Dick  almost  believed  that  never  had  he 
spoken  of  love  to  her,   and  never  had  she  answered 

him. 

''You  are  married?"  he  asked. 

Violet  nodded  her  head.  She  did  not,  however,  in- 
troduce her  husband.  She  took  no  notice  of  him  what- 
ever.    She  did  not  mention  her  new  name. 

"And  you?"  she  asked. 

Linforth  laughed  rather  harshly. 

"No." 

Perhaps  the  harshness  of  the  laugh  troubled  her. 
Her  forehead  puckered.     She  dropped  her  eyes  from 

his  face. 

"But  you  wih,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Linforth  did  not  answer,  and  in  a  moment  or  two 
she  raised  her  head  again.  The  trouble  had  gone  from 
her  face.     She  smiled  brightly. 

413 


THE   BROKEN  ROAD 

"And  the  Road?"  she  asked.  She  had  just  remem- 
bered it.  She  had  almost  an  air  of  triumph  in  remem- 
bering it.  All  these  old  memories  were  so  dim.  But 
at  the  awkward  difficult  moment,  by  an  inspiration  she 
had  remembered  the  great  long-cherished  aim  of  Dick 
Linforth's  life.  The  Road!  Dick  wondered  whether 
she  remembered  too  that  there  had  been  a  time  when 
for  a  few  days  she  had  thought  to  have  a  share  herself 
in  the  making  of  that  road  which  was  to  leave  India 
safe. 

"It  goes  on/'  he  said  quietly.  "It  has  passed  Ko- 
hara.  It  has  passed  the  fort  where  Luffe  died.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Luffe  belongs  to  the  past,  too,  very 
much  to  the  past — more  even  than  I  do." 

Violet  paid  no  heed  to  the  sarcasm.  She  had  not 
heard  it.  She  was  thinking  of  something  else.  It 
seemed  that  she  had  something  to  say,  but  found  the 
utterance  difficult.  Once  or  twice  she  looked  up  at 
Dick  Linforth  and  looked  down  again  and  played  with 
the  fringe  of  her  cloak.  In  the  background  the  docile 
husband  moved  restlesslv. 

"There's  a  question  I  should  like  to  ask,"  she  said 
quickly,  and  then  stopped. 

Linforth  helped  her  out. 

"Perhaps  I  can  guess  the  question." 

"It's  about "  she  began,  and  Linforth  nodded  his 

head. 

"Shere  AH?"hesaid. 

414 


^'THE  LITTLE  LESS  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Violet. 

Linforth  hesitated,  looking  at  his  companion.  How 
much  should  he  tell  her,  he  asked  himself  ?  The  whole 
truth  ?  If  he  did,  would  it  trouble  her  ?  He  wondered. 
He  had  no  wish  to  hurt  her.     He  began  warily: 

"After  the  campaign  was  over  in  Chiltistan  I  was 
sent  after  him." 

"Yes.     I  heard  that  before  I  left  India,"  she  replied. 

"I  hunted  him,"  and  it  seemed  to  Linforth  that  she 

flinched.     "There's  no  other  word,   I   am  afraid.     I 

hunted  him— for  months,  from  the  borders  of  Tibet  to 

the  borders  of  Russia.     In  the  end  I  caught  him." 

"  I  heard  that,  too,"  she  said. 

"I  came  up  with  him  one  morning,  in  a  desert  of 
stones.  He  was  w^ith  three  of  his  followers.  The  only 
three  who  had  been  loyal  to  him.  They  had  camped 
as  best  they  could  under  the  shelter  of  a  boulder.  It 
was  very  cold.  They  had  no  coverings  and  litde  food. 
The  place  w^as  as  desolate  as  you  could  imagine— a 
wilderness  of  boulders  and  stones  stretching  away  to 
the  round  of  the  sky,  level  as  the  palm  of  your  hand, 
with  a  ragged  tree  growing  up  here  and  there.  If  we 
had  not  come  up  with  them  that  day  I  think  they  would 
have  died." 

He  spoke  with  his  eyes  upon  Violet,  ready  to  modify 
his  words  at  the  first  evidence  of  pain.  She  gave  that 
evidence  as  he  ended.  She  drew  her  cloak  closer  about 
her  and  shivered. 

415 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked. 

"Tome?  Nothing.  We  spoke  only  formally.  All 
the  way  back  to  India  we  behaved  as  strangers.  It 
was  easier  for  both  of  us.  I  brought  him  down  through 
Chiltistan  and  Kohara  into  India.  I  brouc^ht  him 
down — along  the  Road  which  at  Eton  we  had  planned 
to  carry  on  together.  Down  that  road  we  came  to- 
gether— I  the  captor,  he  the  prisoner." 

Again  Violet  flinched. 

"And  where  is  he  now?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

Suddenly  Linforth  turned  round  and  looked  down 
the  steps,  across  the  hall  to  the  glass  walls  of  the  res- 
taurant. 

"  Did  he  ever  come  here  with  you  ?"  he  asked.  "  Did 
he  ever  dine  with  you  there  amongst  the  lights  and  the 
merry-makers  and  the  music?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

Linforth  laughed,  and  again  there  was  a  note  of  bit- 
terness in  the  laughter. 

"How  long  ago  it  seems!  Shere  Ali  will  dine  here 
no  more.  He  is  in  Burma.  He  was  deported  to 
Burma." 

He  told  her  no  more  than  that.  There  was  no  need 
that  she  should  know  that  Shere  Ali,  broken-hearted, 
ruined  and  despairing,  was  drinking  himself  to  death 
with  the  riffraff  of  Rangoon,  or  with  such  of  it  as  would 
listen  to  his  abuse  of  the  white  women  and  his  slanders 
upon  their  honesty.     The  contrast  between  Shere  Ali's 

416 


"THE   LllTLE   LESS  " 

fate  and  the  hopes  with  whieh  he  had  set  out  was 
shocking  enough.  Yet  even  in  his  case  so  very  Uttle 
had  turned  the  scale.  Between  the  fulfihnent  of  his 
hopes  and  the  great  failure  what  was  there  ?  If  he  had 
been  sent  to  A j mere  instead  of  to  England,  if  he  and 
Lin  forth  had  not  crossed  the  Meije  to  La  Grave  in 
Dauphine,  if  a  necklace  of  pearls  he  had  offered  had 
not  been  accepted — very  likely  at  this  very  moment  he 
might  be  reigning  in  Chiltistan,  trusted  and  supported 
by  the  Indian  Government,  a  helpful  friend  gratefully 
recognised.  To  Linforth's  thinking  it  was  only  "just 
not'*  with  Shere  Ali,  too. 

Linforth  saw  his  companion  coming  towards  him 
from  the  restaurant.     He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  have  got  to  go,"  he  said. 

"I  too,"  replied  Violet.  But  she  detained  him.  "I 
want  to  tell  you,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "Long  ago — in 
Peshawur — do  you  remember?  I  told  you  there  was 
someone  else — a  better  mate  for  you  than  I  was.  I 
meant  it,  Dick,  but  you  wouldn't  listen.  There  is  still 
the  someone  else.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  her  name. 
She  has  never  said  a  w^ord  to  me — but — but  I  am  sure. 
It  may  sound  mean  of  me  to  give  her  away — but  I  am 
not  really  doing  that.  I  should  be  very  happy,  Dick, 
if  it  were  possible.  It's  Phyllis  Casson.  She  has  never 
married.  She  is  living  with  her  father  at  Camberley." 
And  before  he  could  answer  she  had  hurried  aw^ay. 

But  Linforth  was  to  see  her  again  that  night.     For 

417 


THE  BROKEN  ROAD 

when  he  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  stalls  of  the  theatre 
he  saw  her  and  her  husband  in  a  box.  He  gathered 
from  the  remarks  of  those  about  him  that  her  jewels 
were  a  regular  feature  upon  the  first  nights  of  new  plays. 
He  looked  at  her  now  and  then  during  the  intervals  of 
the  acts.  A  few  people  entered  her  box  and  spoke  to 
her  for  a  little  while.  Linforth  conjectured  that  she 
had  dropped  a  little  out  of  the  world  in  which  he  had 
known  her.  Yet  she  was  contented.  On  the  whole 
that  seemed  certain.  She  was  satisfied  with  her  life. 
To  attend  the  first  productions  of  plays,  to  sit  in  the 
restaurants,  to  hear  her  jewels  remarked  upon — her 
life  had  narrowed  sleekly  down  to  that,  and  she  was 
content.  But  there  had  been  other  possibilities  for 
Violet  Oliver. 

Linforth  walked  back  from  the  theatre  to  his  club. 
He  looked  into  a  room  and  saw  an  old  gentleman  dozing 
alone  amongst  his  newspapers. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  come  to  that,"  he  said  grimly. 
"  It  doesn't  look  over  cheerful  as  a  way  of  spending  the 
evening  of  one's  days,"  and  he  was  suddenly  seized  with 
the  temptation  to  go  home  and  take  the  first  train  in 
the  morning  for  Camberley.  He  turned  the  plan  over 
in  his  mind  for  a  moment,  and  then  swung  away  from 
it  in  self-disgust.  He  retained  a  general  reverence  for 
women,  and  to  seek  marriage  without  bringing  love  to 
light  him  in  the  search  was  not  within  his  capacity. 

"That  wouldn't  be  fair,"  he  said  to  himself — "even 

418 


THE  LI^ITLE  LESS 


if  Violet's  tale  were  true."  For  with  his  reverence  he 
had  retained  his  modesty.  The  next  morning  he  took 
the  train  into  Sussex  instead,  and  was  welcomed  by 
Sybil  Linforth  to  the  house  under  the  Downs.  In  the 
warmth  of  that  welcome,  at  all  events,  there  was  nothing 
that  was  just  not. 

THE  END 


419 


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